


Blood Will Tell

by thewaythatwerust



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action & Romance, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Amnesia, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biological Imperatives, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bottom Tony Stark, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent (due to biological imperatives), Dubious Science, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Gun Violence, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Procedures, Mentions of come inflation, Minor Character Death, Multi, Mutual (three-way) Pining, Mystery, POV Multiple, Past Abuse, Past physical child abuse, Plot Twists, Referenced past trauma and PTSD, Steve-Bucky-Tony is the HEA Endgame, Suspense, Temporary Character Death, Top Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Vampires, Werewolf Steve Rogers, Werewolves, mentions of mpreg, minor character death (but it's the bad guys so it's all good), slight Breeding Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 102,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22170439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaythatwerust/pseuds/thewaythatwerust
Summary: Bucky should have never intervened...But 'should have' has never been his strong suit. Which is how he finds himself in a cell, with the inexplicable urge to protect the human charged with holding him captive from the aberrant lycan threat rising up around them. He thinks it can't get worse... until a strangely familiar face is staring at him through the bars, out for his blood.That's when things start to get really interesting.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 599
Kudos: 816
Collections: Stucky Bingo 2020, Tony Stark Bingo 2020, Tony-involved Omegaverse Fics, WinterIronShield*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i. This fic contains violence, but it isn't, in my opinion, descriptive/gory/bloody enough to warrant a graphic violence tag. If you are super sensitive to such things, proceed with caution, and heed the chapter notes.
> 
> ii. This story will feature some A/B/O dynamics, though it isn't the focus of the story, more of a secondary element - one dot needed in a game of connect the dots. But it will be intense where it's featured. Some of how/why things work in my universe will be explained and probably do not hold true to 'standard' A/B/O universes so if you're a purist or have certain expectations, I won't be offended if you also nope out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Beta'd by FestiveFerret, whom I adore, despite her lack of Care Bears knowledge. 
> 
> ii. TW: A moment of descriptive gore/horror in this one (when Tony is looking at the bodies)
> 
> ★ BINGO DETAILS IN END NOTES:

“What do you mean you don’t remember?”

“I mean, _Barton_ , I don’t remember you bundling me into your car and bringing me back here, or the preceding events that made this little medical field trip necessary. And, judging by the me-shaped dent you say is decorating my truck door, it’s a damned miracle that I --ow, shit!” Tony’s face pinches and swings toward the massive needle currently sticking out of his arm. He grits his teeth and waits until the plunger has depressed fully, pushing a cocktail of science-approved, post-wolf-attack chemicals deemed medically necessary, into his body. He turns his attention back to Clint and tries not to wince at the sharp sting of the retreating needle. “--remember my own name. Or yours, for that matter,” he finishes with a huff.

“Aw, c’mon, man. You’re fine, right? You got up. You walked it off. You’ve gotta remember something.” Clint’s voice is bordering on a whine.

Tony cocks his head to the side, assessing the pained expression. “Not that I’m not flattered by the concern, I am; it’s touching. But it does seem a tad out of character. Did my near-death experience finally make you realize how deeply you care for me? That's so sweet.”

Clint rolls his eyes before grimacing. “Your memory holes are messing with the paperwork. I need some kind of witness statement, something more than..” Clint makes an exaggerated shrugging motion.

Tony hums noncommittally as his gaze drops back to his arm, watching as large thumbs smooth a bright Care Bears band-aid over the small puncture mark.

“Sorry, it’s all I’ve got,” Bruce’s voice is, as always, not without an apologetic waver.

A small blue bear scowls up at him. Grumpy bear. Fitting. “All good, Doc. Anything but Teletubbies is fine with me.” Tony smiles and slides off the exam table. His knees buckle slightly as his feet make contact with the floor, and Clint and Bruce rush to grab his arms, steadying him. When he’s absolutely sure he won’t sink to the floor without aid, because that would be embarrassing and harder to fob off, he waves the supports away. “Ah, I’m good, thanks — just a little discombobulated after this morning. Brain injury, you know? Forgot how knees work.”

Bruce and Clint's hands disappear from his arms, but the concerned bodies they belong to continue to hover nearby.

“Clint, I can drop him home if you have to return to the station.” Bruce’s words pull up at the end in his patented "paint an invisible question mark over everything" tone.

“Yeah? If you don’t mind. I really should get back and check on things.”

There’s a thread of excitement tangled up in Clint’s words, and Tony can’t really blame him. Having actual work to do at work is a rare commodity around here. Still, he bristles slightly at being talked about like he is no more than a labradoodle needing a lift home after a vet checkup.

“Hey, hey. I’m standing right here. And I’m fine, by the way.” He bites back a groan as he pulls the borrowed sweatshirt over his head, the tears in his skin and aching muscles objecting to every movement. “...Mostly. And,” he adds, clamping a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, “I would very much appreciate you playing chauffeur, thank you, but I’m not going home just yet.”

Bruce’s long-suffering sigh is familiar. “You need to go home and rest. Your body has just suffered extreme trauma, Tony. You’re very lucky to be alive. If Clint hadn’t found you…” Bruce trails off softly, but the unspoken words sound loud and clear in Tony’s head.

“I know, and I will. But first, I need you to come with me to collect the bodies.”

“I can do that, Stark.” Clint’s voice makes it clear that although he can do it, he very much doesn’t want to.

“You have to go back to the station and keep an eye on our new guest, and this can’t wait. There’s a storm rolling in. If we don’t go now, we’ll probably lose the bodies, and then we’ll have more problems than just your swiss-cheese paperwork. And I need to get my truck,” he adds as an afterthought. His eyes bounce between the two disapproving faces. “But once that’s done, I’ll go home, pour myself into a hot bath and do the R&R thing even if it kills me. Deal?”

The look that passes between Bruce and Clint can be best described as resigned disapproval, but they both turn toward Tony and nod, reluctantly.  
  


. . .

  
Tony eases out of Bruce’s car, trying not to let his screaming muscles protest using his mouth, lest the good doctor fix him with an insufferable “I told you so” stare.

“ _Jesus_.”

Tony follows Bruce’s line of sight and grimaces. The snowfall must have stalled not long after he’d arrived. Tony didn’t remember much beyond climbing out of his truck and approaching the wolves. And, surveying the scene before him, he’s a little glad for it.

Tony follows the splashes of red peeking up through the snow, like gory breadcrumbs, to the two frozen bodies, covered in a dusting of snow, lying a few yards from his discarded truck.

One man’s head is twisting unnaturally, facing down into the snow, at odds with the naked chest facing up. The second is much, much worse. Blank eyes stare up, and his mouth, or what’s left of it, is pulled open in an eternal, silent scream: his lower jaw having been ripped from its hinges, now resting on the man’s chest. Bloodstains spread out from the broken body like a gruesome halo. Tony jerks his head away as his stomach rolls, pushing bile into his throat.

So focused on keeping the contents of his stomach inside his stomach, Tony hadn’t heard Bruce approaching him. “You know, when Clint came barrelling into the clinic this morning, rambling about a horror show, I thought it was his regular hyperbole. But seeing this… Tony, how are you even alive right now?”

Tony rubs his fingers over the dressing covering the wound at his temple. He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Believe me, I wish I could remember what went down, but it’s just… blank.”

Bruce’s head tilts to the side, his brows tugging down. He walks away from Tony, head down, eyes on the snow. “Tony, have you seen this?” He starts turning in a slow circle, eyes still fixed low. “These wolf tracks don’t make sense. Footprints are heading away, but none lead in.”

Tony shrugs as he moves toward the back of his truck. “Must have filled in already.” He lowers the tailgate as his eyes sweep the sky. “We better get this done before we’re neck deep in snow. I’ll never hear the end of it if Clint has to rescue me twice in one day.”

Moving quickly, they carry the men, one at a time, and slide them onto the truck bed. They work quietly, with lips pressed together, grimly, and gazes averted from the crumpled bodies. Tony spreads a black tarp over the pair, secures it, and then slams the tailgate back in place.

He rubs his palms against his jeans, repeatedly. He knows there’s no blood on him, but he can’t wipe the feel of it off his skin. He shivers. “Let’s get out of here. I’m suddenly very ready for the aforementioned hot bath.”

Bruce nods his agreement. “You got your keys?”

“Yeah, I’ll meet you back at the clinic. I’ll swing by and pick up Barton on the way. You can help fill in some of the holes in his report. And,” Tony reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, stretching it to the side, forcing a series of soft clicks, “he can do my portion of the heavy lifting. My head is not particularly happy with me right now.”

Bruce hesitates, shifting back into Doctor Banner mode. “Are you okay to drive?”

“Yeah, Brucey, you know me - just hamming it up to get out of corpse-carrying duty.” His cheeks push up in a decent forgery of a real smile, and if Bruce doubts its authenticity, he doesn’t let it show.

After an assessing beat, Bruce turns and trudges to his car.

With no more appraising eyes on him, Tony lets his face fall as he presses the heel of his hand to his temple. Truth be told, he isn’t sure he should be driving, but his choices are limited to one. He can’t leave the bodies here, and they won’t fit in Bruce’s car. He’s almost to the door when he pauses, his gaze snagging on dark stain at his feet, half-obscured by a dusting of snow. He squats down, his eyes following the bloody smear that ends under his truck cab. Directly under where he had been.

He rubs at his chest, without thought or intent, old horrors rising up and bleeding into the new. Familiar anxiety bites at the edges of his mind, and he pulls a deep calming breath through his nose, trying to extinguish the embers of panic before they catch. He blows it out slowly, though more shakily than he would like, as he straightens. He strides to the door quickly, pulls it open, and then climbs in. Shaking his hands out before tucking them between his thighs, he wills the trembling away and squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for his racing heart to slow.

A loud honk startles him, and he whips his head around to see Bruce now pulled up alongside him, waiting for him to move. Tony’s fingers fumble with the keys as he presses them into the ignition. He meets with success on his third try, and with a twist of his wrist, the truck roars to life.

He pushes the panic down as he starts the slow journey back to town, with Bruce following closely behind.

He needs to hold it together, just a little while longer - just until the man locked in their holding cell can fill in the gaping holes in his memory. A sliver of guilt slices through him as he realizes part of him doesn’t want to know. Tony’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror to the bodies in the back of his truck. He hopes the leaden sense of foreboding twisting his gut is just a side effect of his concussion and not foreshadowing. He has enough nightmare-fodder in his life, he’s not in a rush to add more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ For Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [Card:3034][Square: K2: Amnesia]
> 
> ★For StuckyBingo2020:  
> Title: Blood Will Tell  
> Creator: Thewaythatwerust  
> Card number: 028  
> Link: N/A  
> Square filled: E1 - Mythical Creatures  
> Rating: Mature  
> Archive warnings: N/A  
> Major tags: N/A  
> Summary: Animated Fic Moodboard  
> Word count: N/A


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ For Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [Card:3034][Square:T2: Myths & Legends]
> 
> i. Giant heart-eyes emojis to the fabulous Ashes0909 for fixing my words to make them fit for human (and werewolf, and vampire) consumption! <3

Afternoon light slices into the cell, split into pieces by the steel bars on the window, shining brightly on the wood slat floor. Bucky stares at it disdainfully through pain-pinched eyes and shifts away, furtively, until his back makes contact with the curved logs that make up the wall of the cabin.

The constant ache below the surface of his hands pulls his focus. The creeping black has faded, leaving angry red skin and glistening welts in its wake. He stretches his fingers carefully before curling them into fists and lets the sleeves of his bloodstained sweatshirt swallow them from view. 

He  _ should  _ have left well enough alone. He’d learned the hard way what comes of interfering. Shifted, lycans are strong enough to be a problem in a one-on-one, fang to fur fight, but three-on-one, even with the unnatural shift, the odds had been dramatically in their favor. Daylight had weakened them, but given his own vulnerability, it had been reckless. Hell, it had been downright stupid, and all because he’d gone soft for some human he didn’t even know. 

He reels his knees to his chest and locks trembling arms around them, railing his teeth together as the movement pulls at the gashes on his side. Pain bites at him, bright and sharp, an echo of the teeth that had ripped through him this morning. As memories of the fight rise in his mind, his fangs draw down, millennia of vampire-lycan hostility surging to the surface. Scowling, he lets his sweat-slicked forehead drop to his legs.

A chair scrapes across the floor, and he feels appraising eyes settle on him like a physical weight. He pulls in a slow breath, lips pressing into a grim line as his lungs fill and displace damaged tissue. It’s pantomime, an exaggerated display to reassure the human watching him, assessing him for recognizable, easily quantifiable data. After two more slow breaths, the gaze releases him, and he lets the game fall away. 

The sound of a truck door slamming, followed by boots falling heavily on wooden steps, reverberates through him, making his head ache. He’d almost forgotten how it felt being this far gone, his body raging against itself, dead and dying, his increased sensitivities out of control. Each noise is a stabbing pain, a sharp note in an already raucous dissonance, but he remains motionless... waiting, listening. 

“Everything go okay, Stark?” 

Bucky’s focus sharpens at the name, the memory of a silver embossed name tag rising in the back of his mind. He lifts his head just enough to catch sight of the man in question. The man he’d saved. Seeing Stark alive and, if not exactly well, at least conscious, unfurls a knot in his stomach he doesn’t realize is there until it’s not. The feeling grates in his mind, like an itch he shouldn’t have and can’t reach.

“About as good as can be expected. The bod-- ah, they’re in the back of the truck.” Bucky can hear the exhaustion vibrating through each syllable of Stark’s reply. “And this is the part of the proceedings where you don’t complain when I order you to accompany me to the clinic and give me a hand. Bruce is expecting us. He’s going to do the autopsies and fill in some of the holes in your report.” Tony’s fingertips bloom white under the pressure as he presses them to his temple. “I just need five minutes and half a dozen Advil first; my head is killing me.”

Bucky closes his eyes, his mind conjuring up Stark’s actions from the auditory input. Weary footfalls advancing to the single desk in the cabin, the metallic clang of keys being dropped on top before a drawer is pulled open, and the jumbled contents are pushed aside as impatient fingers seek their target. 

“I can handle it from here. You should go home. You look like hell.” The man that had introduced himself as Deputy Clint Barton when Bucky had allowed himself to be half-dragged from the car, sounds impatient and unhopeful, like their discussion of work versus rest is a familiar one. 

“Oh, well, that’s good,” Stark mumbles, the sound of pills jostling inside a bottle signaling his success. “I’d hate to feel like hell and not look it. No good for garnering sympathy.” Bucky opens his eyes in time to see Stark place two pills on his tongue and swallow roughly before wincing and reaching up to rub the back of his neck, pulling it one side, then the other, stretching out an invisible ache.

“Seriously, man, I got this. Go get some rest.” 

Tired brown eyes dart to the cell, to him, and Bucky watches Stark shake his head and wince again before dragging his gaze back to Clint. “If you’re sure, you can go help Banner. I’ll wait here and head home when you get back.”

Apparently appeased by the offered compromise, Clint nods, grabs the keys from the desk, and heads outside. 

Stark waits until the roar of the truck engine has faded before he approaches the cell, moving slowly, haltingly, like his instincts have identified Bucky as a threat, but his mind hasn’t quite caught up. 

“So. Barton tells me you refused medical treatment. Well, as much as shaking your head and mumbling can constitute a refusal, I guess. And that, absolutely, is your right, but that’s an awful lot of blood on you. If even some of it is yours, it might be a good idea to let the doc patch you up.”

Bucky feels the curious gaze burning over him, as hot and unrelenting as the sunlight that had scorched him earlier. Still, he keeps his hood up and his head down, pressed against his raised knees, hoping his closed-off appearance is enough to discourage conversation. But the fact that he’s in a cell, covered in blood, half-way to true death should be clue enough that fate is not granting his wishes today.

“If you’re in pain, Bruce, ah, Doctor Banner has all the good stuff to help - morphine and, uh, all the other ‘phines, I’m sure. He can help you, if you’re hurt. There’s no point in suffering unnecessarily.” He takes a step closer.

Against his better judgment, Bucky lifts his head, locking eyes with Stark, who recoils, taking two steps backward before he forcibly stills his retreat. “ _ Jesus. _ ”

_ Not quite.  _ Dark humor sparks inside Bucky, momentarily rising above the pain, the corner of his lip twitching minutely. He looks up at his would-be captor through burning eyes but remains silent. 

“I really think we should have that tended to,” Stark grimaces. “It does not look great.” 

After seeing the marred skin of his hands, Bucky can only imagine what condition his face is in. But Stark’s voice is kind, and his eyes don’t dip away in horror as Bucky expects, and for a crazy moment, he has the urge to tuck his face back down to his knees, to hide from the pitying gaze.

At Bucky’s continuing silence, Stark takes two steps forward, reclaiming his earlier position. “Sorry, I think I’ve started a bit backward. My name is Tony Stark. I’m a Wilderness Officer ‘round these parts. And, I guess technically the sheriff, now, too, but that’s a whole other --” He breaks off, shaking his head. “Do you speak English?”

Bucky’s lips twitch again despite himself. He’s impressed Stark --no,  _ Tony _ \-- doesn’t draw out the question with emphasis, as if stretching unknown words somehow makes them make sense in another language. 

A tremor runs through his body, making him jerk violently, and Tony’s eyes narrow at the motion, a deep crease appearing between his brows. Bucky tightens his shaking arms around his legs, cursing the abnormal weakness borne of shifter venom coursing through his veins. Lycan bites, the gift that keeps on giving. 

“Yeah, I think I should call Bruce. I’m not sure you can refuse treatment if you don’t understand that treatment’s being offered.” Tony’s thoughts continue to run unchecked through his lips. “I could try and find you a translator, but I don’t know what we’re translating from, and I doubt our little town, population: one hundred and seven, is likely to have someone who --”

Bucky sighs - the residual stirrings of humanity intrinsically linked to annoyance rather than the biological need to expel air from his lungs. Tony is not going to give up, and Bucky has the feeling it’s a character trait that goes beyond the current conversation. “I don’t need medical attention,” he says softly. His assertation is undermined by another violent tremor rippling through him. 

Tony takes another step forward. “Look, I get it. Your reasons for wanting to refuse help are yours, and I respect them even though I don’t know them, but cards on the table, there are a lot of blanks I need you to fill in for me, and you can’t do that if you’re dead.” A rueful smile tugs at his lips. “Just between you and me, I’m kind of new to this whole sheriff gig, and I don’t really know what forms I need to fill out if an alleged murderer dies in custody, but I’m sure there’s a lot.” 

“Alleged murderer?”

Tony blinks three times in rapid succession before nodding slowly. “Why else did you think you were a guest in our fine, security-conscious establishment? It’s not like you’re here because the Motel Six is fully booked. Not that we  _ have _ a Motel Six.” 

Bucky hums thoughtfully. To be fair, he hadn’t given it much thought beyond the small cabin-turned-station being the nearest port in a storm of sunlight, one easy enough to leave once his strength returns. “Is it customary to throw people in cells without laying charges in your small town?”

“Clint didn’t---?” Tony scrubs a hand through his hair. “No, he probably didn’t. Well, no, you’ve got me there. Truth be told, I’m a little out of my element here. We’ve never had a murder before, let alone two in one day. But my pool of suspects is ridiculously shallow. Down to a you-shaped puddle, actually. Of course, if you want to tell your side of the story, offer up some alternate version of events, I’d be happy to hear them. It might clear things up and save me from calling in the cavalry to collect you.”

Apprehension settles in Bucky’s gut, sensing a trap. “Alternate to what? Your version?”

Tony presses his fingers back to his temple. “I don’t  _ have _ a version. All I remember is driving out to the injured wolves and getting out of my truck. After that, it’s a whole bunch of fade to blackness. So if you could help me out, maybe you could help yourself in the process. At the moment, the best working theory is that you and the two victims may be poachers, got into some kind of argument, and things went very downhill from there. And if that’s what this is, if there was maybe some kind of, uh, corrosive liquid involved,” Tony says carefully, gesturing vaguely toward Bucky’s face, “and it’s a case of self-defense, that changes things.”

“And you would just believe me if I told you it was justified?”

“I would find it easier to believe than option B.”

Curious despite himself, Bucky cocks his head. “Which is?”

“That you killed those two people without reason. That you’re a cold-blooded murderer.”

Cold-blooded murderer. Right on both counts. Bucky stares up at Tony silently, now only one step back from the bars. 

“But if you are a killer, why would you leave a witness?” Tony twists his hands together as he takes the last step forward, now a whisper away from the bars. Bucky can hear Tony’s heart picking up pace in his chest as his words tumble from his lips. “Why not kill me, too? Leave me with the rest... in the snow, in all that blood. Under my truck.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare as the acrid scent of fear floods the air. Tony rubs at his chest with one hand and wraps the other around the bars. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut as Tony’s racing pulse echoes in his head. His fangs extend, thirst burning his dry throat.

“Why  _ didn’t  _ you kill me?” Tony’s voice is a strangled whisper.

Bucky surges to his feet and lunges forward; his movements slowed by his poisoned body. Tony startles and jolts backward, hand still clutching the bar of the cell. Bucky curls his hand over Tony’s, trapping it against cold steel. He can smell the salty beads clinging to Tony’s brow, the metallic scent of blood below the thin dressing on his temple. He can feel the fear feeding up into him through warm skin, but Tony doesn’t pull away, staring at him with wide eyes.

Hunger flares inside Bucky, his instincts screaming at him to jerk Tony forward, crush his face against the metal bars, close enough to sink his fangs into him. He can almost feel the velvety liquid cascading over his tongue, spilling over his lips even as it rushes down his throat. His lips part, and he runs his tongue behind the line of his teeth. He wants to taste Tony; he wants to drink him dry. 

Wrenching his hand from Tony’s, he presses his lips into a tight seam and staggers backward, the threads of his restraint stretching thin. 

“Okay, so, I, uh --” Tony clears his throat, oblivious to how close he’d just come to bleeding out into Bucky’s mouth. “I’m trying to run before I walk again, huh? Alright, let’s try baby steps.  _ Was _ this self defense?”

Bucky doesn’t answer. Outside, the sun is setting, filling the room with a gentle, golden glow, the harsh stripes of light from earlier now gone. He strides past the window to the small cot slotted against the far wall. The springs creak under his weight as he settles on the thin mattress, not looking at Tony.

“Is this connected to the wolves I saw? Were there only three of you?” Tony sighs, and Bucky can hear him shifting his weight as he lingers, waiting for an answer. He listens as Tony turns and walks back to his desk and drops down into his chair. “Honestly, at this point, I’d settle for a name.” There’s a low thump followed by a soft groan: Tony’s head meeting the wooden desk. 

Bucky’s every instinct is screaming at him to hold his tongue. Going against his better judgment has not fared well for him thus far. He should have learned his lesson years ago: humans are as dangerous as the sun, though they burn from the inside out. He leans his head back against the wood log wall and lets his eyelids fall closed. “Bucky.”

Tony jolts to his feet so fast the chair crashes to the floor, and Bucky tries not to wince. The sounds of Tony’s footsteps approaching make him tense. “You feel like sharing anything else? Why you are covered in blood? Why you were out in the clearing in the first place? How you ended up under my truck?”

Bucky opens his eyes and turns to face Tony. “You’re asking the wrong questions, Stark. You don’t want to know how I ended up under your truck, only how you --”

“Head’s up!” Clint barrels into the cabin and lobs a flash of silver at Tony. Caught off guard, Tony spins, noticing the keys too late, cursing as they bounce off his chest and clank to the floor. “Aw, man, zero out of ten.” Clint shakes his head in disappointment.

“Not everyone has your freakish hand-eye coordination, Barton,” Tony huffs as he bends to scoop up the keys. “Especially not while on the losing end of a concussion.” He runs his thumb over the jagged edge of the truck key and turns back to Bucky, but there’s a tightness in the set of his shoulders and distance in his voice. “You were saying?”

Bucky’s eyes flick from Tony to Clint and back again. So much uncertainty haunts Tony’s intelligent brown gaze that Bucky almost breaks. But he shakes his head slowly and lowers himself to the mattress, facing the wall and curling his legs toward his chest. He closes his eyes and imitates the steady breathing of a human at rest. 

Silence fills the air as Tony stands in place for a long moment, staring down at him, and Clint remains hovering in the doorway. 

“Tony? Are you okay?”

Bucky can hear Tony turning away slowly, his feet dragging across the floor. “Yeah. Yeah, just… going to head out now, I guess. There’s a hot bath and a bottle of bourbon with my name on it.”

“You know you’re not supposed to mix alcohol with a head injury or while on painkillers, right? I’m pretty sure that you drinking is not going to end well.”

Tony’s huffed laugh is humorless. “Don’t worry, Barton, Neither snow, nor rain, nor hangover shall stop me from reporting for duty at 7am sharp. Have a good night, and uh,” Tony lowers his voice, “let him sleep. I think he needs it.”

Bucky listens to the retreating steps. Ten to the door, then five down the steps to the snow. 

He stretches his hand out, letting it peek out of the ribbed cuff of his sweatshirt. The welts on his skin are smaller and slightly less angry-looking. At this rate, he’ll be healed in a day or two, and strong enough to be on his way. He tucks his hand back into his sleeve and wraps his arms around himself as he listens to Tony climb into the truck and turn over the engine.

The sound of the truck pulling away makes something in his gut coil strangely. He wants to call Tony back and tell him everything, wants to make him understand. And more than anything, he wants to know why the hell this man has such a pull on him, making him betray his instincts and ignore his own best interests. He should be focusing on the wolves. The unnatural shifting. The threat he can feel building like a storm on the horizon. He doesn’t have the luxury of this fascination, this connection, this -- whatever this is. He needs to focus on what matters, and Tony Stark does not matter. 

Tony Stark does not matter.

Tony Stark does not matter. 

Bucky repeats it to himself, over and over as his body descends into sleep. Hoping, maybe, if he recites it enough, he may actually start to believe it. 


	3. Chapter 3

Gnarled fingers of frozen branches clutch at Steve, splintering against his skin as he crashes through the forest. The screaming in his head rises above the frenzied pounding in his chest, each agonizing thud against his ribs driving him onward. His brutal pace eats up the ground quickly, earthy tones of green and brown blurring together through a haze of white as he charges ahead on instinct, not knowing _why_ , only _where_. Panic twists his gut even as it tugs him forward. Forward, forward, _home._ The shrieking in his head crests, the sharp stabbing pain inside his mind is not his, but an echo, a cry for help triggering a response he can’t control.

The sweat running down his spine, chilled from the frigid air, are icy fingers of dread clawing at his skin. He swipes the damp strands of hair from his eyes with the back of his hand as he bursts from the treeline and heads for the sprawling farmhouse now in sight. _Home._

His feet land hard on the wooden steps as he propels himself up, three at a time, and shoulders open the heavy door to rush inside. Two strides clear, he comes to a dead stop, eyeing the naked body, bloody and bruised, thrashing on the large kitchen table. 

The screaming in the room tears through him, reverberating inside his skull like electronic feedback. He curls his hands into fists, digging nails into his palms, only barely resisting the urge to press them over his ears. He drags his eyes to the redhead beside the table, filling a syringe from a small, glass vial. “Jesus, Nat. What the hell happened?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. He came limping in about ten minutes ago raving about an attack and then collapsed,” Nat offers calmly as she jabs the needle into a flailing arm. “From what I can tell, he has a broken nose and a few broken ribs, but nothing that would account for the seizure.” She depresses the plunger, emptying the drugs into his system. The room falls quiet almost immediately, as does Steve’s mind.

The tension in Steve's body breaks with the connection. He can feel the lingering effects of the adrenaline, trembling its way through his muscles as he moves from the kitchen into the spacious family room, but if Nat notices, she doesn't let it show. He takes the red plaid throw from its spot draped across overstuffed cushions and carries it back to the table, arranging it over the now unconscious beta. Guilt burns through him as he stares down at the bloody face.

“There’s nothing you could have done.” Nat’s voice is firm as she stretches up onto her toes to place the first aid kit on top of the refrigerator. She fixes him with a knowing look as she eases back down and comes to lean against the table, folding her arms across her chest. “And you know I’m right.” Perfectly painted red lips tip up at the edges. “As usual.”

Affection blooms inside Steve before wilting under the harsh glare of reality. “I appreciate the sentiment, but we both know that’s not true. I’m the _only one_ who could have done something.”

“I’m not talking about The Bond, Steve, I’m talking practicality. You can’t beat yourself up because Rumlow got himself in trouble again. Especially since we both know he probably deserved what he got.”

“Nat!” Steve chides, lips twitching despite himself. “I should have heard him when this _happened_ , not just when he got back here. I should have done _something_.”

“Maybe it wasn’t bad enough to trigger the link,” Nat shrugs at Steve’s pointed look toward Rumlow. “Maybe he was too far away for you to hear it. Or, maybe he was knocked unconscious when it happened and the link broke.” Nat shrugs. “It could be one of a hundred things. It isn’t automatically your fault.”

“That’s an awful lot of maybes,” Steve murmurs, reaching a hand up to knead at his nape.

“I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong.”

“Hmm, nice try, Romanoff, but we both know betas can only trigger links, not receive them.”

“I don’t need to be a mind reader to read your mind, Rogers. It’s written all over your face.” She nudges a slender shoulder against his much larger one. “You have no guile. How else do you think I always beat your ass at poker?” She straightens and moves to stand in front of him. “You _are_ a good alpha, Steve. I know sometimes you wish you could just turn tail and run--” at Nat’s raised eyebrow, Steve’s protest dies on his tongue, “--but as bad of a leader you _think_ you are, this pack would be worse without you. We’d be _nothing_ without you.”

The truth of her words do little to soothe the deep-seated self-doubt and guilt that has festered within him these past two years, now etched so deeply his soul feels stained with it. “I know, Nat, but my sole responsibility is to protect the pack, and I can’t even get that right.”

“Well. It’s not your _only_ responsibility.”

Nat’s voice is low and not unkind, but Steve feels the unintentional wound rip deep in his chest, all those half-buried feelings bleeding out through the gaping chasm left by sharp words. He pushes to his feet abruptly, his gaze falling back to the broken body on the table.

“Steve…”

“No, you’re right. I’m failing the pack on both counts, protection, and…” Steve clenches his jaw, catching soft cheek between hard teeth, letting the pain eclipse his thoughts, forcing them back down in a copper-flavored rush. “It’s no wonder half the pack is questioning my leadership.”

“You need to check your math, Rogers. It’s not half; I’d say a quarter at most.” 

Nat’s attempts to lighten the mood fall flat, but Steve rewards her efforts with a grim smile. “I’m pretty sure _one_ is too many.” He rakes his nails through his beard in frustration. “Sometimes, I just wish…” But he can’t find the words, isn’t sure he even knows them. What would he wish for if he had the chance? For another life? A _normal_ life? That he could have back what he’d lost? A heaviness settles inside him: too many wishes and no stars to be found. 

This life is one he hadn’t planned for - how do you plan for something you never knew existed? The childhood he should have had, to prepare him for this, had been stolen from him, and he’d grown up alone, scrapping for everything he got, never given anything freely except pain, though he had nothing to worry about but keeping himself alive. He had learned the hard way that attachment ended in misery, and he’d sworn off love and family and forging bonds. It was better, _easier_ , to be alone. But life had shown him, many times over, that fate has plans all its own, and now here he is, bound to others in ways he could never have imagined, in ways that terrify him beyond words. 

Time and circumstance may have widened his shoulders, but he isn’t sure they’re strong enough to carry the responsibility of an entire pack on them, not when he has no idea what he’s doing. Learning by trial and error isn’t an option when his mistakes can cost lives.

Below him, a shuddering gasp and hoarse shout pulls his focus. “Vampire!”

Steve frowns and looks to Nat uncertainly. “Did he hit his head? Should I take him to the clinic?”

“Fuck off with that, Rogers. I’m telling you a vamp attacked me.”

Nat doesn’t even try to keep the disbelief from her voice. “You’re really asking us to believe a vampire attacked you? In broad daylight? That’s rich, Rumlow, even for you.” Nat scoffs before turning to Steve. “This is one of those ‘you should see the other guy’ situations, and he’s trying to save face.”

“I’m telling you it was a fanger. He showed up outta nowhere and killed Malek and Pierce.”

Steve startles, gripping Rumlow’s arm, making him wince. “Killed…? What the hell happened, Rumlow?”

“We were just fucking around in the clearing. Having a few drinks, a few laughs. The fanged fucker came out of nowhere, attacked us. Ripped Alex’s jaw clean off and snapped Nate’s neck. Broke my fucking ribs and nose before I got away.”

Suspicion prickles the back of Steve’s neck. Unshifted, his kind aren’t strong enough to overcome a vampire, not one-on-one. But three on one in daylight? Rumlow’s story has more holes than the fancy cheese Nat is obsessed with. “How much, exactly, did you have to drink? Did you hit your head or --”

“You callin’ me a liar?” On the table, Rumlow struggles to sitting, cursing and reaching for his ribs. “You just don’t wanna sack up and go toe to toe with a fanger, huh?” He pulls the blanket around his waist and pushes off the table. Steve reaches out a steadying hand when Rumlow stumbles, but he growls, shrugging off the help, and starts limping toward the door. 

“Rumlow, I--” Steve starts, but Nat’s annoyed voice rises above his.

“Where do you think you’re going? Your body can’t heal without rest, asshole, and I’m not dragging your sorry ass to the clinic when you seize again.”

“Fuck you, Romanoff,” Rumlow calls over his shoulder before directing his vitriol to Steve as he steps outside. “If you don’t have the balls to take care of this, I will.”

Steve squares his shoulders and drops his voice low. “ _Rumlow. Stop_.” Steve’s voice is filled with Command, and he storms outside to find the man in question stopped still, three steps clear from the house, turned to face him, along with most of the rest of the pack, milling around outside. His neck warms uncomfortably. He hates being the center of attention - yet another failing of his position. He closes the distance to Rumlow with a single step, pressing tight into his space. “ _You will go to bed and you will rest. You’ll stay there until I come to check on you, is that clear_?”

Rumlow’s eyes drop to the floor, his head jerking in acceptance though a muscle ticks over his clenched jaw. “You’re going to let that walking corpse get away with this, aren’t you? Let it kill two of my pack and--”

“ _My_ pack.” Steve growls lowly. “I am your pack leader. Your _Alpha_.” Steve casts his eyes around at the sea of wide eyes staring up at him. “Not all of you are happy with that, I know.” Steve throws a look at Rumlow, but his eyes are still on the ground. “But you either live with it or you leave. They are the options. I _will_ find out what happened, and when I do, _I_ will decide how to deal with it. _No one is to take this matter into their own hands._ ” The Command in his voice has seven heads bowing low in submission. “Is that clear?” 

A chorus of soft affirmations ripple through the pack. 

Rumlow remains in place, twitching with anger, and Steve can feel the desperate desire to bite back, to resist, but though he may detest it, he’s bound to his designation, just as Steve is to his. Finally losing the battle to biology, Rumlow’s head drops low before he turns on his heel and heads back inside.

The small gathering parts as Steve stalks down the steps and heads away from the house. He’s almost to the property line before Natasha catches up to him. “Nice speech.”

Steve raises a shoulder in a weary shrug. “It was honest.”

“Speaking of truth, you don’t really believe a word Rumlow said, right?” 

“No, but how can I not check? _Something_ happened, and if there really are casualties...”

“What are you expecting to find? A pile of ash and two bodies?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” At Nat’s derisive snort, he sighs. “Okay, probably not. But there will be something or nothing, and in either case, that’s a start, at least.” He rubs his hands over his jeans, hating what he’s about to do but needing to do it just the same. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and it’s not your responsibility, but could you --”

“Keep an eye on Rumlow until you get back?” Nat smirks. “Of course. Go do your thing.”

Steve smiles his first real smile of the day, grateful to have one person in this world that has his back, not just because of a biological imperative, but by choice. “Thank you. Really. I’ll be as quick as I can. If anything goes sideways, call me.” 

Nat raises a finger to her temple and taps twice, raising her eyebrow in silent question. Steve laughs quietly and taps the rectangle shape in his jeans pocket. “The old fashioned way.”

“Roger that, Rogers.” Nat does a mock salute. “Just… Steve?”

“Hmm?”

“Be careful.”

“Always.” He gives her hand a quick squeeze before he starts jogging to the treeline. Stress drains away quickly, the serenity that always comes from running settling over him as his pace increases.

Too often life feels like living in a cloud of grey, but this is surely the silver lining. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it - his body working so efficiently, so swiftly, the scenery streaking by as he drives forward, the wind whipping past his face, running invisible fingers through his hair, and kissing his skin. The scent of snow tickles his nose on the way to his lungs, filtering into powerful muscles as they stretch out and fall into a familiar rhythm, his mind and body in harmony and at peace.

Sticking to the cover of trees, he races through the forest that rings the town until the dense groves thin. He slows as he approaches, stopping at the edge of the clearing and staring out at the flat expanse. In the small chance Rumlow’s story holds a grain of truth, he doesn’t want to give away his position before he knows what he’s walking into. His keen eyes search for any signs of life, human or other.

Minutes tick by with no movement besides the falling flakes, growing even as Steve’s hope of finding answers is shrinking. Stepping out from the shield of trees, he advances swiftly, seeking any signs of the battle Rumlow insisted was waged here. His eye catches on a patch of snow, shallower than that around it. He kneels, leaning forward to run his hands through the fresh snow, scooping and scraping until pristine white gives way to icy red stains beneath. _So much red._

He rocks back on his heels. The chill racing down his spine has nothing to do with the shift in the wind, heralding a storm he can feel in his bones. Straightening, he spies the twin set of tire tracks, now almost completely filled in. Frustration rolls through him. The vehicles must have left right before he got here, and whatever evidence that existed had probably disappeared right along with them.

He pauses in his retreat as a gust carries to him a familiar scent. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, letting his feet follow his nose rather than his eyes. After a moment, he stops, his eyes falling to his feet, narrowing on the flash of black: a discarded sweater. He bends and grabs the clothing, lifting it as he lowers his head, nostrils flaring. _Rumlow._ Squinting against the wind, he uses his nose and hunts until he finds what he seeks: two more piles of clothing, all but obscured by white. 

Steve gathers up the clothes and breaks through the snow, running back to the cover of trees that will lead him home again. Anger flashes through him, his already wolf-warm blood running hot enough to melt the flakes clinging to him. Rumlow had lied to him, about what he isn't sure, but the clothes in his arms and the twinge in his gut can't be denied. After searching for answers, he has discovered nothing but more questions. He growls low in his throat as impatient feet crush the underbrush, driven on with a new single-minded focus. He _will_ uncover the truth of what happened here, even if he has to spill more blood to do it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ For Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [Card:3034][Square: K1: HANDLE WITH CARE]
> 
> i. Though I am hoping it reads as such, I probably should have mentioned that, for the most part, each set of three POVs (Tony, Bucky, Steve) overlap to cover a single day. 
> 
> ii. TW: nightmares/car accidents.

Screams, human and metal, split the freezing night before dying abruptly. The ringing silence in Tony’s ears is broken by a sickening crunch as his head smashes against the window. Metal dents and a window explodes, sending shards of glass rushing toward him, slicing his face and neck, and warm wetness spills out over cold skin. The world tilts fiercely, and he twists and falls back onto the seat, the hard landing stealing his breath. 

Searing pain breaks through the haze of shock, and a trembling hand traces the jagged metal impaling soft flesh, the source of the agony radiating from his chest. He lifts his hand and dark red glistens grotesquely in the moonlight. His stomach rolls and panic rises in his throat as he turns his head to search out the figures in the front seats, needing reassurance but finding only still, slumped silhouettes instead. 

He wants to cry, to scream, but he’s so cold, and so, so tired. Fighting to keep his eyes open, he watches the swirls of white dance around him, blurring in and out of focus, pulsing in time with his slowing heart. The pieces of glass scattered around him shine like diamonds in the light, the only bright spots in his darkening vision. Another screech of twisting metal breaks the night and more frigid air surges into the car, clawing at his skin as the howling darkness finally claims him.

The scream tears from Tony’s throat as he fights his way into consciousness, thrashing in the damp sheets coiled tightly around him. The scream breaks on a sob, and he rakes nails down his chest, feeling the painful pounding below. He curls inward, wrapping trembling arms around his pillow, rubbing his wet face over red cotton, trying to scrub away the fragmented memories.

_Just a dream, just a dream, just ---_

Shoving his face down into the pillow, using it to muffle his anguished wail, he tries to push the remaining horror from his body through the rush of air. He should have expected this. The heaviness in his gut yesterday had pulled at his mind and dragged him down into this shit. _Again._

His mind fills with all the therapist-imparted slow breathing techniques that will steady his heart and pull him from the past, but he ignores them. He doesn’t have time for slow. Kicking off the sheets, he sits up and grabs the bottle of scotch and empty glass from his bedside table with shaky hands. He pours himself three fingers - two more than he should and three less than he wants - and tries to focus on the burn in his throat instead of the uncontrollable pounding in his head and under his ribs.

The back of his hand slides across his forehead as he pushes the short strands of hair from his face, eyeing the bottle covetously. Another three fingers can’t hurt, though he’s sure nothing less than half the bottle will help. And wouldn’t that just set a great example? Town sheriff showing up to work completely off his face. Barton would probably cite him for drunk and disorderly just for the fun of it and take great delight tossing him in the cell. 

The cell that’s currently occupied. 

Light grey eyes flash in his mind, and he files his lip through his teeth, latching on to the new image in his head with all the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a life preserver.

 _Bucky._ He pulls in a deep breath, letting the mysteries of the present push down the familiar horrors of the past. Tony drops his head into his hands, the heels pressing against his closed lids. There’s something about Bucky, some strange familiarity that pulls at him, though he can’t place why. With the truly horrific damage to Bucky’s face, it’s hard to say that he’s never seen the man before, but he’s sure he would remember that voice and those eyes. God, those eyes. 

Tony had recoiled at the blistered face, it is the stuff of nightmares, but those gorgeous greys are going to haunt his dreams in an entirely different way. _Ah, fuck._ He shakes his head and groans as he straightens. Though new to his position, he’s reasonably sure inappropriate thoughts about murder suspects - or any part of them - are generally frowned upon.

The eerie squeal of barren branches scratching at his window agitates his already raw nerves, jolting him back to reality. The storm had picked up during the night, though by the shallow line of white decorating his sill, it looks more bark than bite. His sweat-slicked skin, no longer warmed by a hammering heart, starts to chill uncomfortably, and he wraps his arms around himself, watching the trees bend alarmingly in the wind as the first rays of light peek over the horizon. 

Turning away from the window, he pads to the bathroom, grimacing as he rolls his stiff shoulders. Maybe he should have listened to Bruce and taken it easy yesterday, not that he’d ever admit it out loud. Who knew you were meant to stretch before moving corpses? He can feel the dull ache growing in his muscles, pressing in on his joints, and settling in his bones. 

He thumbs over the control panel to set the temperature of the water, watching the colored L.E.D.s in the showerhead change from blue to red as steam slowly fogs the air around him. The strain around his lips eases for the first time since waking, one side curving up into a half-smile; there’s no day that can’t be made just a little better with some cool tech. He climbs under the stream, placing his palms on the black tiles, and drops his head low. The water scorches his body, trying valiantly to unknit his tight muscles as his mind wanders.

With the storm kicking up, he should probably take in some more blankets and maybe even a change of clothes for Bucky. Perhaps a show of goodwill will earn him some trust and answers along with it, although Bucky seems more content to spit riddles and stir up more questions than he’s willing to answer. _“You’re asking the wrong questions, Stark. You don’t want to know how I ended up under your truck, only how you --.”_ Frustration surges past his lips; the noise swallowed up by the rush of water. _Only how he..._ what? The proclamation had needled his brain the second it reached his ears and had him tossing and turning for hours before exhaustion had finally taken him.

He groans as he runs soap over sore limbs. Whoever said ignorance is bliss is an idiot. Knowing there’s something he doesn’t know is a constant irritation. It eats at him, nibbling around the black hole in his mind his memories have disappeared into. He tries to coax them out, replaying what he can recall over and over: driving out in his truck, seeing the wolves, stepping out of his truck.... Driving in his truck, seeing the wolves, stepping out of --

He sucks in a sharp breath and coughs on the heated air as the puzzle pieces slide into place. Son of a bitch. He stands motionless as his mind races ahead, joining the dots. He sags slightly against the tiles.

Things just got a lot more complicated. 

. . .

Snow drifts down onto the _Welcome_ mat as Tony stamps his feet and shakes off the light layer of white clinging to his clothes and boots. The quick motion has his head throbbing angrily, and he squeezes his eyes shut, cursing softly under his breath.

Clint rushes past him to slam the door shut against the wind blowing into the station. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Tony, but you _still_ look like shit.” He takes the pile of blankets and clothing from Tony’s arms and deposits them on the empty filing cabinet by the door.

“You really need to stop lobbing such thinly veiled compliments my way, Barton, or I’m going to start thinking you’re looking to push our friendship into the with benefits territory.” Tony shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the desk. He lowers his voice, just loud enough to reach Clint’s ear, his eyes immediately seeking out Bucky. “How’s he doing?”

Tony can feel Clint's eyes on him, watching him watch Bucky, and when he finally drags his eyes away, Clint gives him an appraising look, complete with assessing head tilt before he shrugs slowly. “Hasn’t moved a muscle in the past twelve hours. He didn’t even look at the food I took in last night. At this rate, I think Bruce is going to have to find room for one more Doe in the freezer.”

Tony hums softly as he turns back to stare past the bars to Bucky, still curled up in the same position as when he’d left yesterday. “Would now be a bad time to tell you I have a horrible feeling that we’ve got this a bit wrong?” 

“Wrong? You?” Clint teases before he sobers. “Explain.”

“I don’t think he’s guilty,” Tony murmurs. 

Clint’s mouth drops open, working mutely before he finally hisses, “And when did you have this amazing epiphany?”

“In the shower this morning. It’s where I do all my best thinking.”

“Is that what you call it? I prefer poaching the egg in the bath, myself.”

“I’m talking about logic, Barton, not...whatever it is you’re talking about.” Tony rolls his neck, frowning. The shower hadn’t worked to soothe his aching body at all. His realization had just brought more tension, and right now, he’s severely regretting denying himself that second drink - if nothing else, it would make translating Bartonese just that little bit easier. “Think about it. He kills two people and then decides to take a little snow-nap under a police truck and wait to be arrested or die? That makes zero sense. He would have to be a blue ribbon idiot to do that, and from what few words I’ve managed to pry from his steel trap of pearly whites, I can tell you, a moron he is not. He would have killed me and taken the truck, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation, not least of all because I’d be in Banner’s freezer.”

“Newsflash, Stark: people who murder other people are frequently a few Froot Loops short of a nutritious breakfast. Who knows what he was thinking? More importantly, who cares? The evidence says he’s guilty. He was the only one found with two corpses, two _horribly mangled_ corpses. No tracks in or out other than wolves. So, unless you think the killer is a flying supervillain, or a shapeshifter, or at the very least in possession of a sweet-ass jetpack, you’re going to have to book in some therapy sessions to examine why tall, dark and murderous does it for you.”

Tony ignores the prickling in his cheeks. “First, all either of us knows about evidence can fit in that single season of C.S.I. that you made me binge watch while consuming nothing but pizza, beer, and skittles. Second, from my alcohol-sodden recollection, trusting your gut seems to be a tried and tested method of crime-solving according to said show, and right now, my gut is telling me we’ve got the wrong guy. And, thirdly, for the record, even if he was my type, I’m not so far gone that I have to resort to using a literally captive audience as a half-assed Grindr substitute.”

“That’s very reassuring, Tony, but the cavalry is expecting to collect an accused murderer. What are you going to do? Hand them an I.O.U. on a post-it and say sorry, I let your guy walk because he made a sizable donation to my spank bank?”

Tony leans against the desk and folds his arms across his chest. “You know, it would almost be worth it to see the look on their faces, but no. I’m going to get our friend here to tell me what _really_ happened, find the actual killer, and hand them over instead.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, with a stylized interview montage set to dramatic music in my head, of course. But otherwise, pretty much, yeah.”

The undisguised look of ‘you’re crazy’ currently on display across Clint’s face should be reason enough for him to second guess his plan. If Clint thinks something is crazy, it’s so far beyond the definition that it’s on another page entirely. But this is the best plan he’s got - it’s the _only_ plan he’s got - so he has to roll with it, cross his fingers, and hope for the best. 

“Look, Clint, I know--” Tony starts, but is cut off by a shrill ringing.

Clint holds up one finger as he grabs the phone. “Your friendly Deputy Barton speaking. How may I be of service?”

Tony smiles at the familiar greeting and lets his eyes wander back to Bucky. He can hear the rustle of fabric as Clint picks up his jacket from the desk while he listens to the caller, but Tony’s focus is on the unnaturally still man on the mattress. 

“Last known whereabouts?” Clint asks, his voice heavy. “And how long have they been missing?” 

Tony’s heart stutters in his chest, and he swivels back to Clint.

“Right. No, of course. Do you have any recent photographs?” Clint scrubs a hand through his hair and locks eyes with Tony. “That would be great. Keep those handy, and someone will be out your way shortly.”

Clint ends the call and drops onto the chair, leaning against Tony’s jacket, now draped over the back of it, sighing heavily. “I think we’ve just identified our John Does. You and Bruce are going to have to draw straws to see who’s going out to the Rogers Compound to deliver the news. I’m not it, my shift ended an hour ago, and I didn’t sign up for being the bearer of worst possible news.”

“No, you signed me up for it.” Tony blows out a deep breath. “Alright, I’ll get Bruce to switch days, call him in today instead of tomorrow. I’ll head out when he taps in.”

“I can stay--”

“No. You’ve been here all night. The ‘round-the-clock shifts have to hold for a while longer yet, so go home and get some rest while you can. Banner won’t mind, it’s the same twiddling of thumbs, whether here or there, and at least here there’s more warmth and less dead bodies.” 

“The first aid kit for the truck needs restocking, so I’ll stop by and fill Bruce in on my way home.” Clint eyes him speculatively before rising and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Just be careful, Tony,” he says quietly, nodding toward the cell. “If this guy isn’t as innocent as you think he is, then he’s dangerous, and you barely survived your first run-in with him. You may not be so lucky the second time ‘round.”

“Your concern is duly noted and appreciated. But speaking of Lucky, go home and give him ear scratches for me,” Tony orders, wafting Clint from behind the desk and toward the front door before easing his sore body down onto the now-free seat. The wail of the wind fills the cabin before the heavy door slams closed again, but Tony ignores it, too busy seeking out the small blue and white bottle from his desk drawer. Again. Painkillers acquired, he tips two pills onto his palm and lifts them to his mouth as he pockets the bottle. He has the feeling that he’s going to be eating them like Pringles today: no stopping in sight.

“So, is it just Barton you don’t like or are you going to pretend to be asleep with me, too?”

The soft voice drifts over from the cell without hesitation. “I didn’t say I was asleep.”

Tony tries not to react to the low voice that somehow manages to be both silk and gravel all at once. “You don’t say a lot.” He pushes to his feet with a groan, grabs the back of the chair, and wheels it to the bars. “But luckily for me, today is opposites day, which means you’re going to be an open book, right? Answer all my questions in an easy and straightforward manner?”

Bucky sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, though his head remains down, hidden by his hood. “Is that so?” 

Tony can’t fight the shiver that dances down his spine at the dark humor coating Bucky’s words. “It is.”

“But if it _is_ opposite day, you wouldn’t feel the need to ask me questions, would you?”

Tony hums thoughtfully. Definitely not a blue ribbon winner. “How about we make a game of it? You answer a question for me, and I’ll answer one for you. But since I came up with the game, I get to go first, naturally.”

“Naturally.” 

Bucky’s low laugh has Tony’s fingers flexing involuntarily on the chair. He shakes his head, aiming to clear it but settling for the distraction of the sharp, throbbing pain instead. What the hell is wrong with him? He needs to get it together. He spins the chair and folds himself into it slowly, crossing his legs before swiveling back to face the cell. His eyes narrow on the plate of food sitting untouched on the floor. Baby steps. “So, not a fan of pizza?”

Silence is the only answer for long enough that Tony starts to wonder if maybe Bucky isn’t going to play his part in their little game, but there’s a soft sigh, and then, “I have very particular dietary requirements.”

Hope flutters in Tony’s chest, the rapid beating of invisible wings: his little plan taking flight. “Clint thinks pizza and chocolate milk is a balanced diet, but if you let me know what you _do_ eat, I’d be more than happy to get it for you. I’m not sure how to deal with a hunger strike.”

“There seems to be a great many things you’re not sure how to deal with. How did you end up with a job you so obviously know nothing about?”

Well, there’s a question for the ages. Scratching at the short hair covering his chin, Tony shrugs. “I didn’t seek it out. Sheriffs are elected by the people, and after old Sheriff Coulson passed recently, the only person in the running for the job was someone that Clint has very strong, very negative feelings about, so he may have tossed my name into the ring.”

“Without you knowing.”

“I was already the wildlife officer here - a requirement for a town like ours that borders a national park - and I guess he thought it wouldn’t be much of a leap to being an officer in charge of people, as well. Clint means well, even if his methods come with a large helping of madness.”

“You could have turned it down.”

“I could have, but then there would be a lot of explaining, and fall back on Barton.” Tony shrugs. “Like I said, this is a small town, there really isn’t that much to be done out here. The wildlife mostly looks after itself. We get some illegal hunting activity, a few animal attacks, and the odd search and rescue operation when storms roll in unexpectedly. Then there’s the drunken idiots not knowing their limits, but it’s quieter more often than not. Last week the only productive thing I did was take the microwave apart, supercharge it, and put it back together. So, I’m not exactly run off my feet, even while wearing both hats.” 

Suddenly remembering his plan, he rises and goes to collect the pile of clothes and blankets from the front of the cabin, calling over his shoulder, “My turn. Do you have a last name, or are you one of those super hip types like Madonna or Beyonce that just goes by one?” 

He’s back at the bars, unlocking the door, before Bucky snorts and offers, “Barnes.”

Tony opens the cell and steps inside, pushing the untouched plate of food aside with his foot. “Bucky Barnes. Alliteration. Nice. I like it.” He tucks the blankets under his arm and holds out the clean sweats he’d brought. “I noticed you have a penchant for black, so hopefully these are to your tastes. They may be a little tight, your body looks like it never met a gym it didn’t like, but they do have the added benefit of being entirely blood-free.”

Bucky’s head finally lifts, and the clothes tumble from Tony’s grasp.

“Your face,” Tony chokes out, and it’s all he can do not to lift his finger and point. “It’s be--” he makes a strangled sound and swallows down the rest of the word, his brain coming back online just in time. _Beautiful_ is not a word he should be calling the man in front of him, no matter how true it is. He clears his throat roughly. “It’s better.” 

Bucky lifts his hand and trails his fingers over his cheek. The blisters have disappeared as if they never existed. Smooth skin, flushed red as if suffering a bad sunburn, stretches over high cheekbones and a razor-sharp jaw, and Tony’s heart pounds into his throat. 

In one graceful movement, Bucky pushes off the bed and advances toward him slowly, and a sense of danger prickles over Tony’s skin. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he imagines this must be what it feels like to be stalked by a lion, a powerful beast, radiating a threat that speaks to his base instincts, urging him to turn tail and flee. But Tony doesn’t move, can’t move, he feels cemented to the spot by that intense grey gaze, his heart thumping erratically in his chest. 

Bucky stops a breath in front of him, so close Tony can see the light blue flecks in those silver eyes. But then Bucky bends, the connection breaks, and the fog in Tony’s head clears. He takes a step backward as Bucky straightens, the fallen clothing clutched in his hand.

“How?” Tony grinds out, his voice sandpaper to his dry throat.

“I have a… condition,” Bucky draws out slowly, measuring every word, still holding Tony’s gaze. “My skin reacts badly to sunlight.”

“You’re allergic to the sun?” Tony tries, really tries to keep the disbelief from his voice. He fails miserably.

“Something like that,” Bucky murmurs dryly.

“That’s not a thing. Right? That’s like saying you’re allergic to grass or --” Tony gestures vaguely “-- or air.”

“Feel free to google if you like. I’ll wait.” 

Tony huffs, still entirely off-balance. “I’ll take your word for it. Clearly, humans are not my preferred Jeopardy category, but light up tech or top-shelf liquor, and I’ll wipe the floor with you.”

“I’m not sure you would, you can’t even seem to follow the rules to your own game. You now owe me three answers.”

Tony grins, enjoying the quick wit and matching tongue despite himself. He drops his gaze to where Bucky’s fingers are tracing invisible patterns over the black sweats in his hands. He swallows thickly and tries to reel in his thoughts. “Fair point. Fire away.”

Bucky turns abruptly, saunters back to the bunk, and places the clothes atop it. The stained hoodie muffles his voice as he pulls it over his head. “Have you had any wolf attacks recently?”

Tony’s brain comes to a shuddering halt, his eyes locking on to the muscular expanse of Bucky’s back. Tony’s whole body flushes hot, first with desire, then embarrassment, as he throbs in his jeans. In front of him, Bucky stiffens, and Tony feels the air between them shift, hanging heavy and thick, pressing in on him, suffocating him. Bucky turns slowly, his body drawn taut.

“I, uh, oh,” Tony stammers, pulling the blankets from under his arm and twisting the soft fabric between his fingers desperately. He can feel the weight of Bucky’s gaze on him as his own eyes trace over the broad shoulders, down the hard chest and rippling abs to the ridges of the inviting V disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. Faded scars on Bucky’s left arm, shining silver against pale skin, catch Tony’s eye. He follows the path up as they curve from Bucky’s wrist, crossing under puckered, red-tinged skin on his upper arm, before creeping over his shoulder. Bucky reaches down to grab the clean sweatshirt from the bed, exposing his right side and the large, angry red and black wound festering there. 

Tony takes two steps forward. “Jesus! What happened? You need medical attention, that looks very, very infected.”

Bucky pulls the bunched fabric over his head, tugs it down to cover the damaged skin, and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s fine.” His tone makes it clear _that_ particular subject is not up for discussion. “But you still owe me an answer.”

Tony shakes his head. “And you owe it to yourself not to die from stubbornness, and yet here we are. Have you heard the expression ‘ _to cut your nose off to spite your face’_?” At Bucky’s dark look, a silent battle of wills is waged for several moments before Tony admits defeat. “Attacks? No. Well, aside from mine, yesterday,” He grumbles. “There have been a few extra sightings in the last month, but nothing too out of the ordinary. Why do you ask?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Still my turn, Stark. When am I scheduled to be transported?”

“How do you know you’re being...? Did Clint --”

“You said yourself that you’re hardly set up to deal with murders here, so it makes sense that you would --”

“Pass the Buck?” Tony grins at the sour look on Bucky’s face. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. You’re right. You’re supposed to be collected tomorrow if you’re still facing charges.”

“If?” 

Tony nods, trying to decipher the layers in those pale eyes. “Yes, _if_. We both know you aren’t a cold-blooded killer.”

“We do?”

Tony walks to the bunk, places the blankets on the end, and lifts his head to look Bucky square in the eyes. “It took me longer than it should have - and I blame that on the concussion - but I finally cracked your cryptic little clue. It doesn’t matter how you got under my truck, only how _I_ got _inside_ it. I may not remember what happened, but I do know there’s no way I could have gotten myself inside the cab after my head nearly went through the door. _You_ put me in there, didn’t you? You saved me. From who or what, I don’t know, but I’m hoping you’ll tell me so I can return the favor.” 

“And then you just drop the charges against me?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that? Don’t I look capable of handling things? I need to know what happened so I can track down the real murderer, but yeah, just like that.”

Time stretches thin as Bucky stares at Tony, wordlessly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “There’s just one small flaw in your plan.”

“And what’s that?”

“I _am_ guilty.” 

The words slam into Tony’s chest, pushing his heart to his stomach where it flounders in confusion. Of course this isn’t going to plan, why would the universe buck tradition at this point in his life? He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t believe that.”

“I’ve not lied to you once, Tony. But believe what you like, it won’t make it any less true.” 

A flickering of emotion he can’t place darkens those light eyes and frustration crests inside Tony. “Fine. Let’s say I buy your confession, at least tell me why. Why did you kill them and save me? Answer me that and I’ll believe you. I’ll wrap you up in a bow and hand you over tomorrow with a smile and a wave. But otherwise, I’ll think you’re lying through your pretty teeth, though I can’t fathom why.” 

Bucky sinks on to the bed, his gaze unwavering. “You need to let this go, Stark. You’re poking your head into places it doesn’t belong, and if you’re not careful, you might lose it.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You should be.”

“Why? I know there’s more going on here then you’re telling me. If you’re afraid, I can protect you --”

Bucky’s harsh laugh is lacking humor. “I’m not the one that needs protection.” His head swivels toward the front of the station, and Tony traces his gaze, frowning when he finds nothing amiss. Bucky’s voice drops low, his words pushing out in a rush. “Be careful today, Tony. This world is full of wolves in sheep’s clothing, and they’re more dangerous than you can imagine.” 

A heartbeat later, Bruce barrels through the door in a gust of white. “Wow, Tony, I’m not sure you should be going out in this, it’s really -- oh, sorry, I didn’t -- um, am I interrupting something?” 

Tony turns back, eyebrows raised in surprise. Bucky has closed down, his gaze now locked on the floor at his feet. Whatever connection existed had been severed with Bruce’s arrival. Their game has ended, and Tony has lost. 

“No, Bruce, it’s all good. Just brushing up on my bible quotes.” Pinching the discarded hoodie between two fingers, he strides to the cell door, locking it after he passes through. He rifles through the cupboard by the desk, pulls out a clear evidence bag, and slides the hoodie inside. 

Bruce comes to stand by him as he tucks the bag away in the bottom desk drawer. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, thanks for coming. I’m going to head out to…” Tony trails off at Bruce’s knowing look. “Do me a favor and try and work your puppy dog eyes while I’m gone? Mr. Barnes has a bad wound on his side which is not looking great. If you could convince him to let you treat it, that would be a solid mark in the win column.”

“Oh, uh, okay.” Bruce wrings his hands together. “But... is it safe? To be in there with him? Those bodies --”

“I don’t think he’s the one responsible for the deaths of those men.” Tony cuts in firmly, ignoring the flabbergasted look on Bruce’s face. “He won’t hurt you.” Tony isn’t sure why, despite a confession to the contrary, he’s so completely convinced of Bucky’s innocence, but he would bet his life on it. Tony looks back at the cell. He _had_ just bet his life on it, and now he is betting Bruce’s as well. But there’s some crucial piece of the puzzle that he’s missing, one that holds the key to unlocking the answers he needs to sort out this whole mess and prove he’s right. He can feel it in his bones.

Bruce places a hand on his arm, startling him from his musings. “Are you feeling okay, Tony? You seem a little…” 

“Off?” Tony finishes with a tight smile. “Yeah, I think the concussion may have done a bigger number on me than I thought. Or I might be coming down with something,” he murmurs, his neck flushing warmly, recalling his reaction to Bucky. “I don’t quite feel myself today.”

The large hand slides down to his wrist, warm fingers coming to rest at his pulse point, but Tony shakes him off. “That admission was offered to my friend, not my doctor. I’m fine, I just had a bad night. I’m sure after a good night’s sleep I’ll be right as rain, as a monsoon, even.”

Bruce gives him the look that he hates, the one that says Bruce can see through his bullshit, and is judging him accordingly, so he does what he always does and ignores it and changes the subject. He nods toward the door and asks, “Got any advice?”

The long-suffering sigh is the only reprimand Tony receives. “Be gentle but professional. Answer the questions they have, but maybe don’t mention…” Bruce trails off and gestures to his jaw. “Oh, and make them sit down before you give them the news, you don’t want them hitting the deck and have to haul them back here for me to patch them up.”

Tony gathers up his jacket and shrugs into it, zipping it up and pulling the hood over his head. “Maybe it should be you…” Tony trails off, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, a pit forming in his stomach. He’s never delivered a death notification before, and he isn’t looking forward to his first being a two-for-one deal.

Floppy hair bounces as Bruce shakes his head. “They need to hear it from the sheriff, not the town doctor slash part-time station desk jockey. You’ll be fine. There are Benzos in your first aid kit if anyone gets hysterical and needs sedating.”

Tony nods and does his best to disregard the increasing pain in his head. “Good to know.” He wouldn’t mind downing a few of those himself. He grabs his keys and trudges to the door, turning to throw one last glance over his shoulder at Bucky, still curled in his favorite faux-sleeping position.

“Be careful,” Banner calls softly, affection and apprehension warring for control of his tone.

“Always.” Tony slips through the door and out into the bright white morning. His boots crunch on the snow as he pulls his puffy jacket tighter around him, only just resisting the urge to turn tail and run back into the warmth of the cabin. He hightails it to his truck, instead.

Fighting with the door against the whipping wind, Tony only narrowly claims victory. He celebrates by turning the heater on maximum as soon as the engine roars to life, and holds his hands up to the vents, waiting for them to defrost, letting his mind wander the now-familiar path back to the man in the cell.

Clint’s jibes earlier had hit closer to home than he would admit to anyone but himself. It’s easy to brush off his preoccupation with Bucky as professional, not personal - after all, he hasn’t been personally invested in anyone for a long time. Too long, probably. He can blame his odd reactions on his head injury, his lack of sleep, his not having been so close to anything that hot since he accidentally set his kitchen on fire. But the small voice in the back of his mind calls _bullshit_ like it always does when he tries to lie to himself. 

He looks around the interior of his truck, trying to imagine Bucky pushing his unconscious body over the seats and slamming the door closed, making sure he was safe before crawling under the truck and lying in the snow directly under him. The shiver trembling down his spine has nothing to do with the cold. 

Perhaps that’s the answer to at least one of the riddles. The feelings Bucky stirs inside him could just be faded familiarity, locked inside hidden memories, trying to break free. If only he could remember, he could help Bucky, repay his debt, and these feelings will disappear along with the man. Tony ignores the twinging in his gut and sets his jaw determinedly. He is not getting attached. Bucky is not a stray kitten that needs rescuing and re-homing—well, not re-homing at least. His life had been just fine before Bucky fucking Barnes had been dragged half-dead into it, it will be fine when he leaves. Better than fine, Tony decides, putting the truck into gear and pulling away from the station. It will go back to quiet and uneventful, with no mysteries to solve, and all his ghosts once again laid to rest, buried deep in the back of his mind, hidden away where they belong. 

But he can’t do that without first finding the truth, and the truth is one thing Bucky seems intent on keeping to himself. Tony’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as he turns the problem over in his mind. Maybe he’s been going about this all wrong. Maybe the answers don’t lie with Bucky; maybe they’re wrapped up with the bodies in the clinic. Maybe the task he’s been given, to go and deliver answers, is a blessing in disguise. Maybe, if he plays his cards right, he can come away with fewer questions of his own. It’s a metric fuckton of _maybes_ , but given his plan so far has consisted of nothing but a wing and a prayer, he feels oddly hopeful. The truck speeds forward with the heavy urging of his foot, Tony suddenly eager, not apprehensive, to reach his destination.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ For Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [Card:3034][Square: S3: GRIEF]

The front door slams shut with the finality of a bell in a boxing match, signaling the end of round one. Or more accurately, round one hundred at this point. Steve grinds his teeth, biting back the frustrated curses coiled ready on his tongue. Rumlow has been a problem since he’d shown up eight months ago, teeth bared, four other betas in tow. The pull of an alpha in such close proximity had been too much to resist, though Steve had seen how desperately Rumlow wished differently. The lines of contempt and open hostility etched into his face at their first meeting had only deepened as the days ticked by.

“Are you sure that was the right move? Letting Rumlow go? You could have made him go sit in a briar patch until company has been and gone,” Nat smirks, curling her legs under her as she settles on the sofa. "With great power comes amazing opportunities to abuse said power.”

Steve can’t remember the last time he had been sure of anything. Still, he’d stormed into Rumlow’s room upon his return, ready to put a fist through the almost healed nose but — “He swears up and down that they’re dead, and that it _was_ a vampire that did it, even under Command. There’s not much more use he can be here, and it’s probably best he’s out of the way for what comes next.”

“I still don’t…” Nat trails off, shaking her head. “Vamps. Here? Why would they settle in town? They would smell the pack a mile away. And just one? Surely a mated pair would attack together.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a pair.”

Nat’s lips twist doubtfully. “A lone wolf may be uncommon for our lot, but from what I’ve heard, vamps are _never_ solitary creatures, always either mated or in a brood.”

“A nest."

Nat quirks an eyebrow. “Come again?”

“A group of vampires is a nest, not a brood. I think that’s a jab at the dark and brooding thing that they…” Steve breaks off, his cheeks prickling as Nat’s eyebrows knit together, her keen eyes boring into him. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, there _are_ solo vampires. They’re rare, but…” He shrugs and turns from the curious gaze, escaping into the kitchen. The calming scents of wood and snow whip into the room as he pegs the front door open. The cold air dances across his face, fighting back the heat in his cheeks. Nat’s gaze traces his movements as he returns to the couch. “As for the rest, I can’t get answers from Rumlow that he doesn’t know.”

Questions shine in bright green eyes, but after an appraising beat, Nat changes tack. “True, but you could have pushed him about the clothes a little more. His explanation was a little half-assed.”

Steve hums thoughtfully. ‘ _A bit of experimenting, Rogers, just some pack bonding_.’ Rumlow’s answer had felt evasive, a kernel of truth wrapped in a lie of omission, and Steve had _wanted_ to push, to delve deeper, but something had felt... _off_. Rumlow had cowered under Steve’s fury-filled Commands; his bowed head spoke of submission, but the way the words had dragged from his throat screamed resistance, like he had been fighting control. Something, which, to the best of Steve’s knowledge, is impossible.

Alpha Command is an unbreakable, undeniable instinct, but the connection with Rumlow had been strained, brittle. Every confession had been hard-won instead of given willingly, and so he had relented, worried the threads would snap completely if stretched too thin.

Steve’s feet find the well-worn path around the room as impossible thoughts jumble and blur together inside his head. Though his call to the station this morning had been motivated by lingering doubts in Rumlow’s story, he’s hoping the visit will fill in some of the blanks in his own, too. There’s still so much he doesn’t know. Things he _should_ know. Things that, if he hadn’t resisted his place as pack leader, he _would_ know, and then he wouldn’t be out of his depth now. But he’d needed time to process, to realign expectations and manage disappointments, and he’d turned from the one person who held the answers to the questions he didn’t know he had... Until now. 

“Jesus, Rogers, you’re like a wind-up bunny. You’re physically incapable of standing still for more than five minutes, aren’t you? Why are you so nervous, anyway?”

Steve jerks to a stop, rocking forward onto his toes, his desire to keep moving only narrowly eclipsed by his need to prove Nat wrong. His anxious gaze finds the door, his brows tugging down. “It’s just been a while since I’ve seen him. And we didn’t exactly leave off on the best of terms.” 

“It’ll be fine, Steve. You’ll get a stern look, a lecture about taking too long to call, and then a hug. I’m sure you’ll survive it.”

Steve’s restless fingers drum a soundless beat on his thigh. “That’s _if_ he comes. He might send ‘ _your friendly Deputy Barton”_ instead," Steve murmurs dryly.

Nat’s delicate nose twitches as she snorts derisively. “What the hell is that?”

“New guy, I guess. He’s the one that took the call. Said someone would be out shortly.” Steve glances at the clock on the wall. Again. Clearly, there is some discrepancy in what the word _shortly_ means. The tension in Steve’s muscles increases, coiling tight like a spring before snapping him back into motion. He ignores Nat’s soft laugh of victory.

On the third lap, he cocks his head and lets his feet carry him closer to the open door as muted sounds — snow crunching under tires, an engine that turns quiet as a door snicks open before slamming closed again — reach his ear. He drags in a deep breath through his nose, the unfamiliar scent making his shoulders fall. “I think we’re about to meet the friendly deputy,” he says flatly. 

Nat lifts from the sofa in one graceful movement, tossing the cushion in her arms toward Steve, whose hand snaps out to pluck it from the air instinctively. “It’s probably his day off. I’m sure once he hears about your call, he’ll get in touch.” Nat stretches, zips the thin black coat Steve knows she wears for style rather than warmth, and smiles reassuringly at him as she pulls the hood over her red curls.

“Maybe,” Steve murmurs, plucking at the blue trim of the pillow distractedly as he walks back to the couch. He drops it into Nat’s recently vacated spot, barely resisting the urge to flop face down onto it and refuse to get up until all his responsibilities have magically disappeared. He can’t fight the scowl that tugs at his brow. It looks like today is not going to follow his carefully constructed plan of attack. Again. He really ought to be used to it by now. 

Nat pauses at the back door with her hand on the knob. “You might want to chase some of those storm clouds from your face before New Guy gets to the house. I doubt he’s psyched about coming out here, the last thing he needs is to be greeted by the Big, Bad Wolf.” 

The scowl deepens at Nat’s smirk as much as her choice of words. “I’ll try my best.”

Nat blows a kiss before slipping out the door, and Steve turns at the sound of knuckles rapping against the house siding, all but lost to the howling of the wind. He allows himself one last steadying breath. Disappointment aside, there’s still a job to do, answers to find, and he’ll fare better having the deputy onside. His lips tremble with the effort of pushing his cheeks up, but after a moment, the mask holds, and he strides through the kitchen toward the human waiting at his front door.

After Nat’s comment, Steve almost rolls his eyes at the back of the puffy, red parka swallowing up his visitor from view. He pauses. Up close, simmering atop the basal scent of human, the deputy smells sharp and cynical, marks of citrus mellowed with a sweet note of honey, and the lingering scent of expensive scotch. Steve pulls in another long breath. 

When a minute passes with Red Riding Hood oblivious to his presence, Steve folds his arms across his chest. As much as he’d prefer it, he can’t stand in the doorway sniffing strangers all day. “Like the view?” 

The deputy jolts at his voice and stumbles backward a step, crashing into his chest. Steve reaches out to steady him, planting his hands on surprisingly solid arms buried under the puffy outer layer, but lifts them again as the man cranes his neck around in an awkward attempt to find what he’d collided with, his body struggling to follow suit. 

Beautiful brown eyes, already wide from being startled, edge wider still as they dart down his body, taking in the red plaid button-up stretched tight across his chest and the dark jeans below. “Oh, wow,” the man breathes, eyes flicking back up to his face, staring up at him before blinking slowly like he’s emerging from a reverie. “Ah, _it’s_ wow, I mean, the view. It’s amazing. All the…nature…” 

The man winces, and Steve’s lips push higher into a genuine curve as he extends his hand. “Steve Rogers. And you’re Deputy Barton?”

The wide eyes narrow and cloud with confusion. “Ah, right. Sorry, I should have...” A gloved hand slips into Steve’s bare one. “No, I’m Tony Stark. Sheriff Tony Stark. But you can call me Tony, everyone does, well except the ones that call me something that can't be repeated in polite company.” He doesn’t shake, just squeezes Steve’s hand — a gesture Steve mirrors — before grimacing and pulling his hand free. It falls to his side, where hidden fingers curl and uncurl, seemingly involuntarily.

“ _You’re_ the Sheriff?”

“I feel like I should be dismayed and insulted by the overwhelming shock and disbelief in your tone, but given the fact I’ve asked myself the same question, in the same tone, on more than one occasion, I’ll give you a pass.” Tony smiles wryly.

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean…” Steve rubs at the tension headache he can feel forming at the base of his skull. “Did Sheriff Coulson retire?”

Tony blanches. He shuffles on his feet and presses his hands into his pockets, and Steve has the distinct impression that the only thing keeping Tony’s gaze fixed on his is sheer force of will. “Uh, no. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but — he died. A little over three months ago.”

The soft words shatter inside Steve, crushing against his chest and stealing his breath. He throws out a hand to the door frame, fingers splintering into the wood to stop himself from dropping to the floor. _Gone._ For _three months_. His heart constricts painfully. How could he not have known? He _should_ have known. He should have been there. Steve’s eyes burn, and he blinks rapidly to keep them from filling and spilling over. Coulson had cautioned him against isolating himself from the world, but Steve hadn’t been able to find it in himself to heed the warning. The news of his death reaching him now, _like this_ , is a morbid _"I told you so"_ from the grave. One last lesson.

A gentle pressure on his arm startles him, and he looks down to see Tony’s hand. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, sorry, I just... we haven’t — hadn’t — talked for a while. How did —” Steve draws in a shaky breath. “Nevermind.” He isn’t sure he wants to know the hows or whys. The details may break what little remains of his tenuously held strength, and he cannot afford to fall apart. Not now.

The pressure on his arm crests into a consoling squeeze before disappearing altogether. “Did you know him well?”

Steve releases the door frame, squaring his shoulder and locking his knees, keeping himself standing unaided. His nod is slow, haunted with memories. Coulson had saved him more times than he could count, from his bullheaded stubbornness, his ignorance, from giving up on himself… and the pack. With kind eyes and a warm smile, Phil had given Steve so much more than he could have ever hoped to repay, and now, he’d never have the chance to try. Grief swells in his throat, turning his voice gruff. “He was the closest thing to —” he breaks off and clears his throat roughly, ignoring the stinging pain of dammed tears. “He helped me out a lot when I moved back here. So much more than he’ll ever know.”

Steve braces himself for the string of five words he’d grown to detest in his youth _— I’m sorry for your loss —_ but they don’t come. Tony just stares up at him with sympathetic eyes and a small, sad smile that pulls down to a grimace as a shiver runs through his body. 

“You’re cold.” Steve pushes the grief down, grateful for a more immediate problem requiring his focus. Something he can fix. He can deal with his despair, regrets, and failings, later. “I’m sorry, I should have invited you in earlier. Please,” Steve steps aside and gestures Tony in with the sweep of his hand. He pulls the door closed once Tony’s over the threshold, and follows him as he strides past the kitchen to the family room. The red hood turns in all directions as Tony takes in every inch of the sprawling farmhouse within view on the way.

“You know, I’ve lived in this town since I was eighteen, but this is the first time I’ve ever been out here. It’s nothing at all like I’d imagined.”

Steve motions to the couch, watching Tony fold himself down to perch on the edge before he sinks onto a soft cushion himself. “You’ve heard the rumors.” It’s a statement of fact, not a question. He had put a lot of effort into ensuring the gossip runs rampant about their little out-of-the-way hideaway, sowing the seeds of suspicion and watching them grow. It's easier to deal with humans when you don't have to _deal_ with them.

Tony smiles sheepishly as he peels back his hood. He runs a hand through the messy spikes of dark hair now in view, ruffling them further. “That this is some kind cult? Yeah. The whole mysterious isolation deal isn’t doing much to put the rumor mill out of business.”

“I don’t mind it too much, actually. People fear what they don’t understand, and avoid what they fear; their ignorance is my bliss.” 

“Hmm.” There’s a knowing gleam in Tony’s eye. “I suppose rumors are less work than keeping guard dogs, and much cheaper to feed. Though, I find it hard to believe that the rumors never mentioned the hulking lumberjack cult leader. But maybe that would negate the fear and arouse interest instead of suspicion.” 

Steve can’t help the surprised bubble of laughter that slips past his lips. “Lumberjack?”

Pink stains Tony’s cheeks. “Just, you know, the beard and the red plaid is kind of, well, ah...” He coughs as if needing a physical disruption to break the babbling words tumbling from his throat. “Sorry, that wasn’t professional at all, was it? I apologize, I’ve been a bit out of sorts lately,” Tony offers, gesturing to the dressing on his temple. “Not at all myself.”

“Head injuries do tend to have that effect.”

“Not great for memory, either, though I do recall you saying you moved _back_ here. Did you grow up here?”

“Ten points for the smooth segue, Sheriff.” Steve smiles before sobering. “No. I visited with my parents once, and we were supposed to move up here, but… life intervened.”

Tony nods, fidgeting with the zipper of his parka. “Yeah, it has a way of doing that.” 

Under normal circumstances, Steve would offer his best imitation of a smile and change the subject as casually as he could. But he feels the shift in the air, the heaviness of shared trauma settling over them. The thread of connection tugs at his gut and loosens his tongue. “My parents bequeathed it to me,” he draws out slowly, “though I didn’t know until Phil tracked me down. It took a little persuading, but he convinced me to… embrace my birthright. I’ve been here for two years now.”

“And everyone else living here, I’m guessing they’re not really cult members.”

Steve finds himself marveling at the charming ease with which Tony guides him from his dark thoughts. “No, though sometimes I think it would be more harmonious if they were. We’re —” Steve falters, searching for the right way to explain. Having not expected to be the one offering up answers, he is wholly unprepared for the questions. “— an extended family. Everyone here is bound by blood, so you can probably imagine all the squabbles that come with that. But for most of us, we’re all each other has.”

“Family is good,” Tony murmurs. “Must be nice for someone to have your back. Though I’m not going to lie, I’m picturing you all out here like some kind of Care Bear Cousins in a frozen, woodsy Care-A-Lot.”

Steve can’t press his lips together tightly enough to keep them from splitting and curving up, enjoying the intelligence and sharp wit glowing within the man sitting next to him. The very attractive man sitting next to him. The thrill of attraction that courses through him is swift and intense. “Just decidedly less fuzzy and rainbow-colored?”

“Oh, be still my heart! A man who knows his eighties cartoons!” Tony's grin is dazzling. “You may have a point on the rainbows, but the fuzziness remains to be seen.” Tony’s eyes drift over Steve’s beard, trailing down his neck to where skin disappears behind a dark scarf before flicking lower still.

Steve’s gaze narrows on the flash of pink swiping over Tony’s lower lip. He’s mostly sure it’s not intended to be overtly sexual, but his cheeks do their best to match the color regardless as heat of another kind flashes in his belly. He runs his hands over his denim-clad thighs, needing to give them something to do other than reach out and glide across that now-wet lip.

When Tony crushes the lip in question between his teeth, Steve startles and surges to his feet abruptly. Confusion darkens Tony’s face, but Steve takes a step backward, body going rigid. “I’ll, uh, get those photos you wanted.” 

Steve’s legs feel leaden, like he’s walking underwater, pushing against the pull tugging him back to the couch. By the time he reaches the kitchen table, his head and heart are pounding. He plants his hands on the solid surface, splaying his fingers, trying to ground himself. His head is swimming, spinning, threatening to take the room with it. 

It’s been an age since his body has reacted so viscerally to someone, he’s almost forgotten what it feels like. When he woke this morning, he didn’t expect a pretty face and some clever banter to have him ready to mount the seductive sheriff on the couch. Images of sinking into Tony, nipping at his neck, marking him, making him moan and shudder and beg, burst bright in his mind. He catches his cheek between his teeth, but the metallic rush over his tongue does nothing to dampen his arousal, his touch-starved body reacting to desires denied for too long.

Maybe in another life, Steve could lean into the spark he can feel flickering between them, fan the flames and let nature take its course. But this isn’t another life, and their natures are very much destined never to intertwine. Though witty and smart and sexy as hell, the man sitting on his couch is just a _man_ , a tantalizing representation of a life that will never be his. 

His head drops low, his gaze falling to the photographs, to the faces smiling up at him, frozen in time. Faces he’ll never see smiling again. He blows out a low breath. There are more important things to grieve for today than his love life. 

He lifts the pictures, sets his shoulders, and returns to Tony.

Steve folds himself down on the couch, keeping a careful cushion of distance, and passes the photos to Tony. “The top one is Alexander Pierce. The other is Nate Malek.” 

A muscle jumps in Tony’s jaw as he stares at the images as they tremble in his hand. “And they’re family?”

“Yes. ...Cousins.”  
  
Tony lifts one hand and reaches out to let it hover over Steve's leg for a moment before it lands lightly. Brown eyes drag up to meet blue. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but your cousins aren’t missing. We found them. They’re, uh —” Tony swallows roughly, “— they’re deceased.” 

Steve nods slowly. He had known this was coming, and though he’d planned to feign shock, the thought of being purposefully deceitful to Tony turns his stomach. He settles for genuine curiosity instead. “How did they die?”

“Their deaths have been ruled a homicide. I'm sorry, that’s all I can say right now.”

Steve does his best to ignore the warm weight of Tony’s hand, still on his thigh. “How, though? Were they attacked?” — Did they bleed out? Were they drained? — “Do you have any suspects?”

Tony hesitates before answering, something flickering in those intelligent eyes Steve can’t quite put a name to. “I’m sorry, I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. They were found at Crescent Clearing. Do you know what they were doing out there?” 

“A lot of the pa— ah, family likes to go out there to blow off steam. Fool around. But I don’t know why they were out there yesterday, no.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who would want to hurt your family?”

Steve shakes his head, trying to fight back the growing frustration. He can’t exactly admit they may have died as a result of an age-old blood feud. Telling a human sheriff he’s trying to solve the murder of a couple of werewolves by a vampire is a one-way ticket to a straight jacket.

“Their deaths were very - ah - It seemed very personal. Is there no-one here that had issues with them? You mentioned family disputes?”

“No, nothing like that. Just snapping at each other over the usual petty disagreements, clashing personalities, that kind of thing.”

Tony’s fingers start tapping on Steve’s thigh in a distracted — and very distracting — way. “I don’t suppose you’d know if they were involved in any kind of illegal hunting activity? Specifically involving wolves?”

Apprehension coils Steve’s body tight, and he wrestles to keep his voice even. “Wolves?”

“There were wolves sighted in the area right before the murders. I’m just trying to ascertain if the two are linked somehow. Perhaps poaching could be a —”

“No,” Steve cuts in, voice firm. “They’re not — weren’t — hunters and they’d never hurt a wolf.” At Tony’s raised eyebrow, Steve adds, “They’re somewhat of a, uh, family totem.”

The scent of Rumlow reaches Steve before the sound of his footfalls on the wooden steps, but he’s unprepared for the wave of aggression that assaults him when the beta appears in the doorway. The sheer force of the emotion triggers a link, and Steve gasps as Rumlow’s fury echoes through the intangible connection, like vibrations on a spiderweb, throbbing along gossamer strings, feeding into his mind. Steve stiffens, surges to his feet, and takes step toward the door, angling his body between Rumlow and the object of his hostility. 

The beta stalks forward, eyes trained on Tony. His lip curls in disgust as he snarls, “What is _he_ doing here?”

Behind him, Tony shifts, and Steve reaches back, holding out a hand, signaling him to hold his position. He growls a warning, low and deep, and Rumlow falters, his face pinching tight. The reason for the burning hatred flowing so openly from the beta is lost to him, but Steve can feel its target: _Tony._

“This has nothing to do with you, Rumlow. I think you should leave.” 

The air around them thickens, simmering with tension - a breath before boiling over. Steve shifts his weight, bending into a slight crouch, anticipating the charge. Instinct flashes through him, the need to protect Tony rising above all else.

“I think maybe you’ve mistaken me for —” Tony starts, brushing against Steve’s hand as he stands. Steve twists toward him, to warm him, but the world tilts and falls away as Rumlow slams into him from behind, sending him sprawling to the floor. His head catches the table on the way down, the sharp corner slicing into his cheek, the metallic tang fills his nose as blood rushes from the wound. 

Steve pushes to his feet and flies at Rumlow. He claws at Rumlow’s hands, prying them from their stranglehold on Tony’s throat. An elbow catches him in the ribs, and he doubles over before pivoting and spiking his shoulder into Rumlow’s sternum, sending the beta stumbling backward. Tony’s choking gasp fills the room as Steve lands a heavy blow, wiping the smirk off Rumlow’s face with hard knuckles, before wrapping a hand around Rumlows neck and driving him back against the wall. His other hand catches Rumlow's hand as it jabs toward him, and he lifts and pins it over the beta’s head.

Rumlow’s free hand scrapes at the unyielding pressure around his throat as he struggles for breath.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Steve knows he could — he should — use Command. Make Rumlow submit, to slink from the room, tail between his legs. But blood is pounding loud in his ears; reason drowned out by white-hot fury. He feels wild, out of control, the wrong side of feral, without enough control of himself to exert it over another. 

Steve knows Rumlow takes great pride in his small victories of defiance and counts forced submission among them, deciding the only way Steve can best him is through biology. Steve’s lip curls up, another growl tearing from his throat. He wants to make Rumlow submit, to acknowledge his place in the pack the old fashioned way. Rumlow thrashes in his grip as Steve asserts more pressure around his throat, months of repressed rage, resentment and irritation burning through him unchecked. He wants to make Rumlow pay, to squeeze until he hears the sickening snap, wants to feel Rumlow go limp in his hand.

“Jesus, Steve, stop! Let him go!” Tony rasps, his hands, now glove free, pull at Steve’s arm, trying to break his hold. 

The hoarse voice cuts through the blood lust in his head, and Steve loosens his grip, just enough for Rumlow to draw a shuddering gasp, his eyes wide with fear.

“Please, Steve. Let him go. I don’t have room for this asshole in the clinic freezer.”

Steve’s head whips toward Tony, frowning at the shaky smile. His fingers twitch around Rumlow’s neck, emotion and logic warring for control of his body. But it’s the flicker of fear in Tony’s eyes that makes his fingers finally relax, and the beta crumples to the floor. 

Rumlow spits out a mouthful of blood. “You’re so fucked, Rogers. I’m calling the cops. Gonna have you hauled away,” he wheezes, stumbling to his feet. He flashes a red-stained grin and reaches into his pocket. “Finally gonna have you gone.” 

“Small problem with your otherwise genius-level plan: I _am_ the police. And as much as I’d love to see Steve in handcuffs, ideally the fur-lined kind, the only one in danger of seeing the inside of a cell today is you.”

Rumlow stills, head snapping up to Tony and Steve shifts, his whole body a shield between them. 

“ _You’re_ the sheriff?”

Tony’s head drops against Steve's back, and he mumbles softly, “I’m going to get a complex.”

Steve straightens. “Yes, he’s the sheriff. He’s here about Pierce and Malek. And you just tried to kill him.”

“Look. I get it,” Tony says, stepping out from behind Steve’s back but allowing one thick arm to remain in front of him like a human boom gate. “This is a difficult time for your family. Tensions are running high. Normally the attempted murder of law enforcement is a big no-no, but today is your lucky day. The only cell at the station is currently occupied, which means you get a valid-only-for-today, get-out-of-jail-free-card.”

“ _Tony_.” Steve twists back, opening his mouth to protest, but clamps it shut again when Tony lays a hand on his arm and shakes his head.

“No, Steve, it’s okay. He wasn’t attacking me, not really. He doesn’t even _know_ me, it’s just…” He shrugs. “Grief is ugly. It twists you up inside and makes you do twisted things.” Tony turns to Rumlow. “This is a one time only offer. Your pain is understandable, but it does not make your actions excusable. If you lift a hand _to anyone_ again, you _will_ be our guest for an extended stay, shared accommodations or not.”

Steve shakes his head, eyes still locked on Tony, who nods slightly in response. Without turning, he directs his voice to Rumlow. “Leave. Now.” 

Bitter animosity thickens the air around them, but after a minute, the tension leaves with Rumlow, his scent replaced by fresh snow before the door slams shut once more. 

Adrenaline floods Steve’s body, speeding into his chest, making his heart thump harshly against his ribs. “Are you okay?”

Tony nods once. “Yeah. That was… that was… what _was_ that?” He draws a jittery breath as his composure cracks. His skin turns pale and he sags, Steve’s grip on his arms the only thing keeping him from dropping to the floor.

Beneath his hands, Tony starts to shake violently, and Steve curses under his breath. “I think you’re going into shock.”

Tony stares blankly up at him. “I — no. I’m fine.”

“We need to warm you up.” Placing one of Tony’s arms around his neck, Steve wraps his own arm around Tony’s waist and all but carries him to the kitchen, and eases him into a chair. Steve grabs the kettle from the stovetop and takes it to the sink. 

As cold water flows into the kettle, Steve’s words pour from his mouth. “I’m sorry about the heating in here, it’s abysmal, I know. We all tend to run a little hot, so it doesn’t bother us much, but it’s not helping you at the minute.” Each word slides over his tongue, leaving a bitter trail of fear in his mouth. Seeing Rumlow with his hands around Tony’s throat had triggered something inside him. Something he’s never felt before. Something he should absolutely not feel for a human. 

He shuts off the water and places the kettle back on the stove, turning the element on high before looking down at the man shivering at his kitchen table. In a few minutes the tea will be ready, Tony will drink it, warm up, and he’ll be fine. Steve knows he needs to discourage this strange affection blooming inside him. He needs to be smart, to keep his distance. And yet…

And yet he can’t stop himself from pulling Tony to his feet. He unzips the coat, revealing the ugly, red marks on Tony’s neck. “Fuck, Tony.” Rage seethes inside him as he traces the burgeoning bruises with a trembling finger. “I’m so sorry.” He unfurls the scarf from around his neck and wraps it around Tony’s before sliding his hands under the puffy coat and pulling Tony against his chest. 

“Uh, I’m f-fine, really, just, oh, wow, why are you so warm?” Tony snakes shivering arms around Steve’s back, locking them together.

“It’s just a family thing. This is the first time I’ve been glad for it.” 

Tony melts against him, and Steve tightens his grip, resisting the urge to run his hands through the dark strands rubbing over his cheek. “Mmm, ’m glad, too,” Tony murmurs.

Steve draws in a deep breath, registering the scent of fear slowly ebbing away as Tony’s racing pulse slows to match his own. The shivering subsides as Tony’s body accepts his warmth, and labored breathing gradually becomes slow and steady. He knows he should step back, extricate himself from Tony’s grasp now he’s settled and warm, but suddenly he doesn’t have the strength. Tony slots against him so perfectly — warm and sweet and willing — and yearning spreads through Steve, slow and thick _._ The voice of reason in his head knows this connection he feels to Tony is impossible. Still, the thought of having Tony turn and walk out of his life forever, of never seeing him again, sends a shock of ice through his wolf-warm blood.  
  
Isn't this what Phil had warned him about? The dangers of a life spent pushing people away. He's done that so far and look where it's gotten him. He is surrounded by bonds made for him, or by him for the benefit of others. The ones he'd chosen for himself had ended in pain, but it doesn't mean they always would. That's just the law of averages, right?

Maybe… Maybe he doesn’t _have_ to sever the tie completely. They could be... friends. Steve can ignore the desire Tony stirs in him. Or, he can handle it. Memories and fantasies played out with his hand can keep the yearning at bay. 

As if sensing the direction his thoughts have taken, Tony nuzzles against his throat. Steve throbs painfully as the straight line of Tony’s nose drags up the column of his neck. “Mmm. Why do you smell so fucking good?”

The shrill whistle of the kettle rips through the fog of lust and makes them jolt apart. 

Tony runs a hand down his face, staring up at Steve, brown eyes blown dark and cheeks tinged pink. “I - fuck - I’m sorry.” He winces as he wrings his hands together. “Jesus. I’ve more than used up my quota of apologies today, haven’t I? I should get some kind of stamp made. Can we maybe just blame this on the shock? You know, since I’ve used the concussion excuse once already in the last two hours.” 

Steve turns to the stove, using the time it takes to turn it off and move the kettle to scramble for some semblance of control. He forces lightness into his tone as he turns back to Tony. “Head injury, strangulation, and shock. You’re not having a great week, are you?”

“Yours isn’t looking so great, either.” Tony motions to Steve’s face. “I can clean that up for you if you’d like. Do you have a first aid kit?” 

In the whirlwind of chaos and desire, Steve had forgotten the cut on his cheek. He reaches up and swipes at it with the back of his hand before wiping the streak of red on his jeans. “It’s just a scratch, it’s fine. Thank you, though.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, a dark arch of disagreement, but he doesn’t press the point. “Y’know it’s weird, I thought coming here would answer all my questions, but right now I’m more confused than ever.”

Steve hesitates, feeling the same way but unsure of how to reply. He settles for huming noncommittally and motioning toward the kettle. “Tea?”

“Oh, no. Thanks.” Tony murmurs, eyes dancing. “I’m plenty warm enough.” He sinks back down onto the chair as he zips up his coat, fingers drawing distracted patterns over Steve’s scarf. “So, Rumlow. His face. Was that you?”

Red stains shift and crack as Steve flexes his fingers. He knows he should feel guilt at the sting of his bloody knuckles, but there’s nothing but relief that Rumlow is gone and Tony is safe. “Today is the first time I’ve put hands on him. So the nose, no, that wasn’t me. Finding himself in fights is a bad habit of his that he can’t seem to shake.”

Tony straightens in his seat. “It looks very recent.”

“It happened yesterday.”

Steve can see the gears spinning in Tony’s mind, lighting up his eyes. “The same day as the murders? Is there any chance he was with Alexander and Nate when they died?” 

Steve pushes the sleeves of his shirt up, letting them bunch at his elbows, stalling for time. These are the questions he’d been dreading. “You think he’s responsible?”

Tony’s lips purse pensively. “Not necessarily,” he picks the words out slowly. “But if he was there, he might have seen something. He could help me find who is.”

“He’s not exactly the helpful type.”

“You know, I sensed that,” Tony says dryly. “But all the same…”

“He’ll probably spend the night licking his wounds and salvaging what’s left of his pride. But when he comes back tomorrow, I’ll tell him you need to talk to him.”

“And you’ll use your words, right? Not your fists?”

Steve smiles and pulls out the chair beside Tony, dropping down into it and leaning back. He fingers the red stain on his thigh. “Maybe you should come back to supervise, just in case.”

“I --” Tony’s words are drowned out by the loud ringing sounding from his pants. Fumbling fingers pull the phone from his pocket, and he frowns down at the screen. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

Steve turns away, feigning disinterest, trying to avoid looking like he’s eavesdropping even though the voice on the other end reaches his ear easily. 

_“Something went wrong, Tony. You have to get back here, now.”_

Tony lurches to his feet. “What happened?”

Steve mirrors the action, the masquerade of indifference falling away as he lets his gaze settle openly on Tony. He doesn’t like the way the blood, just recently returned to Tony’s cheeks, drains away, or the way the vein jumps over corded muscles in his neck, or the slight shake in his fingers as they bloom white around the phone. And Steve especially doesn’t like the way not liking all that makes him feel. 

_“I’m not sure, I did what you asked, cleaned the wound but something — I don't know. It it isn’t looking good. I don’t know if -- look, you just need to get back here.”_

“I’m on my way.” Tony clicks the phone off and shoves it back in his pocket, tripping over his feet and stumbling as he backtracks to the door. “I’m so sorry, there’s been an emergency and I need --”

“I understand.” Steve pulls the door open, latching it in place one more. “Go.”

Tony spins and closes the distance to the door in three quick strides. At the threshold, he pauses briefly, throwing a last look at Steve over his shoulder before he disappears.

Steve remains in place, a strange sense of loss churning in his gut as he listens to snow crushing under hurried feet. The sound of Tony running away from him. No, running to someone else. Intent aside, the result is the same, and he can’t find it in himself to be thankful to the universe for intervening, for pulling Tony away before he is made to push him aside. The roar of the engine has long since faded when the shudder that rolls through his body lands him back on the chair.

The rollercoaster of emotion that has been tearing through his body for the past few hours — anxiety, shock, grief, desire, aggression, panic and hope — comes to a shuddering halt in exhaustion, and he folds his arms over the table before dropping his head onto them with a groan. He doesn’t have it in him to acknowledge the twin sets of feet flying up the stairs, and doesn’t turn to face the breathless summons from the doorway. He has done his duty for the day; his spoons of responsibility are empty and bent. Whatever it is, it can wait.

“Steve!” Nat snaps again, now close enough to lay an impatient hand on his shoulder and rattle it roughly.

Ignoring the tremors rocking through him, he keeps his eyes closed and sighs. “What?”

“Rumlow is gone.” 

Finally dragging his face from his arms, he unfolds his arms and props his hands under his jaw. Nat is staring down at him, eyes stormy. Behind her, a slight young woman looks at her feet nervously. He turns his tired eyes on the redhead closest to him. “I know.”

Steve recoils as Nat runs her fingers over the gash on his cheek, her eyes turning darker, still. “Fuck, Steve. Was this Rumlow? And what do you mean _you know_?”

“Yeah, we had a few words with our fists. And I mean I know he’s gone. I sent him out to cool his head, though if it were up to me, he would be cooling his heels in a cell, instead.”

Nat turns and wraps a hand around the slender wrist of the redhead behind her, tugging her forward. Wanda Maximoff is one of the newest members of the pack, having shown up with her brother not three months ago. Just barely turned, she's a sweet kid, very shy and soft-spoken, which explains why she wilts under Nat’s agitated gaze. “Tell him what you told me.”

“I was about to head to town when Brock pushed passed me,” Wanda mumbles softly, twisting her fingers, not meeting Steve’s eyes. “His bag knocked me down and—” 

“I’m sorry he took it out on you, I’ll have a word when he comes back, but I don't see —” 

“No! Jesus, Steve, just _listen_. You don’t understand; he’s not coming back. He’s _gone_ gone,” Nat insists, shaking her head. “And he’s taken Jasper, Jack, and Ruby with him.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ For Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [Card:3034][Square: R2: Experience]

He's on fire. 

Bucky thrashes, trying desperately to escape the flames licking through his body, eating him up, inch by agonizing inch. Screams rip through his mind, though no sound reaches his ear. He curls inward as his stomach cramps, clenches, and convulses, and blood floods into his throat and spills from his mouth. 

Frenzied hands paw at him, at the source of the inferno blistering through him, the pain flaring brighter with each probing stab. His vision is dark, hazy shapes moving beneath pulsing static, pressing in on him, shifting, flickering… until finally, everything turns black.

The darkness pulls at him, the quicksand of his mind dragging him down into the horrors of the past, to ghosts never laid to rest. Cruel eyes, glowing more yellow than brown in the moonlight, stare at him as he writhes and jerks, trying to escape the tether that snakes around his arm, binding him to the cold, stone wall. White-hot flames are chased by biting frost, setting his every nerve alight as he strains against his own flesh, trying to break free. The skin of his arm withers away, dying beneath scorching ice, and callous laughter thunders around him. 

Time stretches thin, every second a century of pain — pain beyond words, beyond thought, unbearable and inescapable... death creeping through his veins, destroying him without the need of sun or fire.

_Just Silver._

The whispered words and frantic shouts echo above him, and he fights his way back to the light. He forces his lids open and blurred shadows move above him, slowly, quickly, stuttering movements and dragging trails, his eyes unable to find focus.

"—the hell happened?"

"—treating his wound — collapsed —"

"—seizing again. Hold —"

"—cky? Can you hear —"

The distorted voices wash over him before fading as he slips back under once more.

...

He comes from the darkness slowly, not clawing to the surface but floating, gradually becoming aware of the warm weight draped across his chest and the dull ache in his side. Disorientation pulls at him as he takes in his strange surroundings. The bare bulb of an old lamp throws hard shadows onto the pale mint walls, where brightly illustrated anatomical posters are half-hidden by large shelves piled high with plastic-wrapped supplies — the clinic. 

There's no clock on the wall, but he wouldn't know how long he's been here even if there was. The only sign of the hour comes from the twin windows in the room, darkened by shuttered blinds, silhouetted by the rectangle of soft peach-tinged light bleeding around the edges. Dawn, if he had to hazard a guess. Paper crinkles as he readjusts on the hard examination table. The fact he doesn't remember being brought here is a bad sign, but at least he hadn't ended up next to the wolves in the freezer.

The weight on him shifts slightly, and Bucky looks down to see Tony -- the only restraint keeping him on the table -- sprawled across his bare chest. Hesitation slows his hand as he reaches up to trail the back of his fingers over Tony's sleep-flushed cheek. Dark eyelashes flutter but don't lift, and Bucky risks repeating the caress. 

So strong, yet so fragile, humans are a weakness he can ill afford, yet he can't seem to fight against the pull Tony has over him. More alarmingly, he doesn't _want_ to fight it. 

Moaning softly in his sleep, Tony moves again, his neck stretching out enticingly. Bucky can hear the slow, steady beat of blood throbbing under thin skin. He lifts his head, leaning closer. It's been so long since he's fed, and it would be so easy to sink his fangs into the soft flesh of Tony's neck. He wouldn't drain him, just take a sip, a taste; let the sweet nectar flow from Tony's veins to his and speed his healing. Thirst burns his throat as twin desires wage war — defend or devour. 

Choice made, he keeps sharp points locked behind tight lips.

Tony groans in his sleep, and Bucky stills, frowning as his nostrils flare. Almost hidden under the cloying scent of isopropyl alcohol filling the room, the faint trace of wolf clings to Tony's skin. Possessiveness flashes through him, the spark of heat quickly doused by cold, stark reality. He draws his fangs back and sets his jaw as the irrefutable truth settles over him. Tony no more fits with him than he does with the Lycans. Tony had somehow set himself between two opposing forces in a world he doesn't know exists, a world he can never be part of — the price of entry comes at too high a cost. 

Still, Tony keeps pushing deeper, inadvertently putting himself in danger. Despite his warning, Tony had wandered into the wolf den with no armor -- save his quick wit and natural charm -- and ventured close enough to the teeth of the enemy to come away covered in their scent. Perhaps he'd given the human too much credit. For a brilliant man, Tony Stark is exceedingly stupid.

...And so is he. 

He should never have intervened that day in the clearing. He still isn't sure _why_ he had. 

Observing Tony in the snow -- his jacket off, waving it like a matador wielding a cape, attempting to best the shifter with nothing more than a wing and a prayer -- had stirred something in him. He'd watched as two wolves stalking low in the snow had launched themselves at Tony, propelling him head-first into the truck. But when the largest lycan moved over him, pawed at his prone body, opened its jaws, and lowered its head, Bucky hadn't been able to stop himself. Ignoring every instinct that had served him well in his hundred years, he had raced toward the three shifters in the sun-filled clearing, the urge to protect the human he didn't even know rising above his sense of self-preservation. 

And look where that had gotten him — bitten, burned, and poisoned: the vampire trifecta. 

Tony jolts awake with a gasp, almost falling off the chair. He grips the edge of the table to steady himself as he sits up, and Bucky ignores the fleeting pang of loss. 

"Well, look who finally decided to rejoin the land of the living," Tony grinds out, his voice roughened by sleep. He tries for a smile, but it doesn't hold. The harsh light casts deep shadows beneath his eyes and cheekbones, making him look sick and exhausted.

"If I look half as bad as you, we're both in serious trouble."

That earns him a real smile as Tony rubs a hand over his eyes and stretches his neck with another groan. "I blame my pillow," he chuckles, running his fingers over the ridged expanse of Bucky's abs before yanking his hand back, his cheeks flushing. "Uh. I mean, you're a lot harder than my usual gel-infused memory foam designed for side sleepers."

Bucky shifts on the table as desire threads through him. "You could have shared mine. I'm sure this table is a lot more comfortable than that chair."

"But still very much designed for only one. I'm not sure I'd fit alongside you. If you haven't noticed lately, you are rather... solid."

"Well, if not alongside, then definitely on top."

Tony's tongue swipes along his lower lip, pupils edging wide. "Preferences noted and accepted," he murmurs, eyes narrowing on Bucky's mouth. For one crazy moment, Bucky's sure he's about to find out how Tony tastes -- or part of him, at least. But wild eyes squeeze shut, and Tony pulls in a shaky breath. "I -- sorry. That was…" When his eyelids drag up, desire is dulled by determination. "How are you feeling?"

A not-so-small part of Bucky mourns the change of direction, but he follows Tony's lead reluctantly. "I've been better. Why am I at the clinic?"

"Oh, now there's a thrilling saga. How much do you remember?"

Shadows and whispers. "Not much."

"Well, given the fact you actually consented to medical treatment, my guess is you were feeling a little off to start with," Tony's attempt at a smile is empty, his lips flashing up before trembling and pressing together tightly. "Banner thinks the silver in the dressing triggered an allergic reaction."

Bucky nods slowly. Close enough.

"He tried to dose you with epinephrine, but uh, the only three EpiPens he had must have been old stock or faulty, because the damned syringes on every last fucking one broke when he tried to administer them." Tony shakes his head, his eyes unfocusing like he's watching the afternoon's events replay in his mind. "I'm sorry. You could have died because we didn't check the quality of life-saving medical devices. Banner is coming in later today to go over every single thing in here to make sure it doesn't happen again."

Tony gnaws on his lip, agitation seeping through his every pore, and Bucky suddenly finds himself searching for a way to soften Tony's self-inflicted blow. "It wouldn't have worked anyway. It's not an allergy, just an extreme sensitivity."

Tony's eyebrows crease together, but the tortured lip receives a reprieve — springing, red and puffy, from its enamel cage.

Bucky tips his head toward the silver scars snaking around his arm. "Extreme exposure to _Argentum_ made me sensitized to it. Now, all it takes is trace amounts to overload my system and —"

"And nearly kill you." Tony finishes, voice strained.

Bucky has always been reckless, some part of him perpetually dancing on the edge of self-destruction, loathing what he's become. But laying all his vulnerabilities out on a silver platter? That's just next-level idiocy. But for reasons he isn't able to name, he trusts Tony. "Pretty much."

"Bruce tried to draw blood but couldn't find a vein, so we ended up irrigating the wound to clear it as best we could. You, ah, well... It's probably best you don't remember, you were pretty far gone at that point." Tony's voice drops low. "I wasn't sure you were going to last the night."

Bucky stiffens at the featherlight touch tracing the silver lines peeking out from the large, sterile pad taped to his side. "These scars, the lines are random... organic." Tony nods toward the scars coiling up his arm. "But those are different, structured. Like they were created that way. Is that what happened? Someone hurt you deliberately?" 

Yellow-brown eyes flash in front of his open eyes. "The game's over, Tony. We're not playing tit for tat anymore," Bucky mutters darkly. There are things he won't share — no matter the strange connection. Things he hasn't told anyone.

Tony's gaze locks on his. A dozen emotions flit through the brown hues until finally, he gives a small nod, affirming a decision only he knows. He pulls the blanket up to cover Bucky's exposed skin, smoothing it gently under his neck. After an almost imperceivable beat of hesitation, he leans back, tugs his pullover over his head, bundles up the fabric, and places it on the table. His shoulders curl forward before he squares them: his discomfort at being so prominently on display hanging so thick in the air that Bucky can taste it.

"You showed me yours, unintentionally as it may have been, and now I'm showing you mine."

Bucky's eyes dart over the mess of faded-pink scars decorating Tony's chest before flicking back up to Tony's face. "You don't have to do this."

"Turnabout is fair play, as they say. Ask your question."

Bucky's gaze doesn't waver. "You know my question." 

"A car accident. I almost died. My parents did," Tony says matter-of-factly before pausing, a shadow crossing his face. "It's strange to have the course of your whole life set by an event you can't remember."

"Sounds like a small mercy to me. Can't be haunted by ghosts you have no memory of."

"I think sometimes it comes back to me, at night. Broken pieces. I just wish I knew if the dreams are real or just images my brain has created to fill gaps in the story." Tony nods toward Bucky's arm. "Do you remember getting those?" 

Bucky would give almost anything for the blessing of oblivion. But blessings are beyond the grasp of cursed creatures. "Yes." 

Tony chuckles. "Wow. I spill my guts to you, and that's all I get in return?"

The lightness of Tony's laugh draws Bucky from his dark thoughts, and he can't stop the corner of his mouth quirking up. "...Yes."

"That's cold, Barnes. Alright, I'm ready. Lay it on me."

There are so many things Bucky _should_ ask. Questions about Tony's visit to the wolf pack, but he _wants_ to ask different questions entirely, to discover more about the beautifully complex man perched beside him. ' _How many at the compound?_ ' is what he means to say, instead, he finds himself murmuring, "How old were you?"

"Three days shy of five," Tony answers automatically. At Bucky's raised eyebrow, he shrugs. "I wish I could tell you I remember having a grand birthday celebration in the ICU, but the only details I know about the accident come from the police report and Stane." 

"Stane?"

"Obadiah Stane," Tony says flatly, his eyes falling to his lap, watching in strange detachment as his nails scratch and scrape at the cuticles of his other hand, almost without thought. "An old friend of my father's, and after my parent's deaths, my legal guardian until the day I turned eighteen." The scent of blood bursts into the air from the ragged tear around Tony's thumbnail, but the scent is soured by the bitter notes of anxiety now radiating from his skin. He tucks his injured thumb into a fist and raises his gaze back to Bucky — all light from earlier, gone. "We were on our way to visit him when my father lost control of the car and wrapped it around a tree. He died instantly, and my mom… not long after."

Tony's hand lifts to his chest, fingering the patterns decorating his skin without thought, traveling the slightly raised trails easily, as if he's traced the paths so often they're seared into his memory. Bucky follows the movement, frowning as Tony's fingers slide over a dark gray-black scar, an enlongated ring from which all the lighter scars fork out from. "I should have died, too, but in a twist of fate worthy of a B-grade medical drama, the thing that almost killed me is also the thing that saved me."

 _No._ White noise starts buzzing inside Bucky's head as he pulls himself to a sitting position. "What was it?" He stares down at Tony, who grins up at him, all agitation from moments ago replaced with self-satisfaction.

"Oh, no. No more freebies. If you want another answer, you're going to have to earn —"

" _What saved you?_ "

Tony's smile falls at the strangled question. "Shrapnel. Or, no. I don't suppose that's right. Shrapnel is small, this was... Well. I was - ah - impaled during the impact, but it turned out to be a good thing, strangely enough. It was like a giant cork sticking out of my chest, helping keep at least a little of my blood inside my body, which in the grand scheme of things, turns out to be pretty important. And when I say cork, I mean a giant piece of jagged —"

"—Metal."

Tony's mouth falls open before curving up. "Didn't anyone ever tell you ruining the ending of a story is rude?" Tony's laugh turns into a harsh cough, but it fades beneath the ringing filling Bucky's ears. 

It's several moments before Bucky registers Tony's voice dancing around the small room. Murmured words that slip through his mind before he can grasp them. It takes a warm hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently, to jolt him from the past once more.

Tony, now redressed, is standing next to the bed, looking down at him with anxious eyes. "I have to go. There's been some kind of animal attack out at old Colonel Phillips' place. Will you be okay here by yourself?"

Bucky just stares up at him, wordlessly, white noise now screaming inside his head. 

"Bucky?" Tony leans close, concern pinching his face tight as he presses a hand to Bucky's forehead, brushing hair off his face and tucking the strands behind his ear. "Are you okay? I can stay if you need me. I can call Clint to --"

Recoiling from the touch, Bucky shakes his head. "I'm fine."

Tony hovers, his weight shifting from foot to foot as he hesitates, eyes not moving from Bucky's face. He rails his teeth together in indecision before he nods. "Clint will be here within the hour to collect you. He knows to bring blankets to bundle you up to keep you safe from blisters." Tony's small smile dies quickly. "But, uh," he pauses, reaches into his pants pocket, and pulls out a small black object before handing it to Bucky. It's a flat plastic disc with a raised, circular button in the center. "This is a panic button. I made it while you were comatose. It's linked directly to my phone, so if you need me at all, just press that button, and I'll come straight back, okay?"

Bucky turns the device over in his hands, silently. He reclines back down onto the table, meets Tony's gaze, and nods once. 

"Good. Great." Tony spins on his heel and heads to the clinic door. "I'll be back as soon as I can. There are spare blankets on the trolley next to you if you get cold." He pauses in the doorway, turning back. "Oh, And Barnes? Don't think I've forgotten. You owe me three answers when I get back, and I plan on collecting." He smirks before slipping through the door and pulling it closed behind him.

Bucky stares at the empty chair beside him. The eerie stillness inside him makes him feel hollow and cold. ... _Colder._ Sometimes, he misses the chaos that comes from being human — his heart hammering in his throat, the rushing sound of blood pounding in his ears, sweat dampening his hairline in times of internal crisis... Times like now. 

He should be relieved, to finally understand the reactions Tony stirs in him. The connection he can't deny nor resist. The memory rises once again in his mind — standing motionless in the freezing night, oblivious to the snow billowing around him, his focus fixed on the small, unconscious boy cradled in his arms, bleeding out around the large, jagged piece of metal protruding from his chest. 

Guilt flares inside him, burning brighter than silver. _He_ is the reason Tony's life had been forever changed... He can't be the reason it ends.

The Lycans are coming. He can sense it. He'd known that day in the clearing, watching the third wolf flee, that there would be a reckoning. Pressure is building in the world around him -- the sharp breath before the storm. They won't want a repeat of their first encounter. Unnatural shifting left them weak, vulnerable. They'll come when the full moon hangs high in the sky, when their strength is at its greatest. They'll come for him, and he can't be around Tony when they do. He needs to leave, to lead them away. 

Abandoning Tony is the only way to keep him safe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ For Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [Card:3034][Square: A3: FREE / 'Need']

"Four? Are you sure?" 

"I know how to count, Stark, and my eyesight is just fine. You might want to invest in a notebook to jot down statements so people don't have to repeat themselves," Chester Phillips snaps. His every ounce of former hard-ass colonel is in full effect, and Tony barely resists the urge to salute and bark 'Sir, sorry, sir!' as Phillips lowers himself into his recliner and pulls a well-worn army green blanket over his lap. "There were _four_. Huge wolves, biggest I've ever seen, but sickly, limping around, weak-looking."

Tony nods slowly as a memory unspools in his mind. The three wolves in the clearing had been acting weird, too. Like they were sick or hurt, staggering toward him before they... He closes his eyes, chasing the memory. Before they _what_? The memory unravels, and though he tries desperately to grab the threads, they slip away, just beyond reach. Frustration grinds through him, sharpening the edges of his words. "I'll have Bruce come out with all the necessary shots." He nods at the bandage wrapped around the colonel's forearm. "Speaking from experience, it's not pleasant, but it is necessary."

Phillips scowls at him. "They didn't get within biting distance, son. One lunged at me, but after I waved the shotgun at them, they took off right quick. Must've had a run-in with a hunter before they came sniffing 'round my backyard. This," —he lifts his arm before dropping it back to his lap— "is from slipping on the stairs. Caught the railing as I went down and took a little bark off. It'll heal up before the bruise on my backside does," he finishes gruffly. His tone makes it abundantly clear he has no intention of allowing Banner anywhere near him. 

The stubborn refusal of medical treatment seems to be a trend lately. Soon, he'll be Bruce's only patient. "I appreciate the call. The sudden surge in strange wolf activity will require investigating, but you know there are strict laws about killing them—"

The colonel scoffs. "I wasn't hunting them, just encouraging them to move on. And if they come nosing around again, you can bet your ass I'll be doing the same damn thing."

Tony sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the building pressure beneath. Is sinus a common side effect of a concussion? Should he still be _having_ side effects of a concussion? Surely his headache should have eased by now. He's going to have to ask Bruce why the hell he's getting worse rather than better. Twenty bucks says the answer is stress — the medical catchall these days. Though it's not a problem he had until a few days ago.

"Stark?"

"Hmm? Oh. Right. Look, Colonel, I understand where you're coming from, but slippery surfaces and senior citizens with shotguns do not good bedfellows make." The stormy look that blows across Phillips' face has Tony backtracking toward the door. "All I'm saying is, if you end up shooting yourself instead of the wolves, I doubt they'll have any compunction about having you for dinner if they come across you bleeding out from a self-inflicted shotgun wound at the bottom of your steps. So just... try and be careful, please."

At Phillips' unintelligible grumble and dismissive wave, Tony turns and slips out the door, taking his own advice and descending the stairs carefully before retracing his now half-filled footprints through the snow-laden ground to his truck. 

Pausing at the door, he welcomes the chilled air swirling over his too-warm skin. He had started feeling feverish on his drive out here, the simmering heat prickling under his skin enough for him to forgo his parka despite the increasing snowfall and decreasing temperature.

The small flakes that land on his skin melt quickly, leaving wet trails as he slumps against his truck. All his symptoms can't be from a concussion, he must have picked up a bug in the clearing. The universe has impeccable timing to go along with its twisted sense of humor. The last thing he needs right now is to be taken down by the flu. He huffs out a sigh. There are days he really regrets having Clint Barton as a friend. And being sheriff. ...But mostly Barton. 

His life had been easy, simple even, back when all he had to worry about was the furred and feathered inhabitants of their quiet little town — _formerly_ quiet little town. Now, instead of just having to investigate the wolves, he has to deal with the human fall out — trying to prove the innocence of the accused murderer sporting the most beautiful face he's ever seen, and delivering death notifications to a reclusive lumberjack-type with the hottest body he's ever seen. And, obviously, his out of control libido is among the casualties and requires some attention, too.

He climbs into his truck and slams the door behind him. Without the fresh air dampening his desire, the flush creeping over his skin is nearly intolerable. He'd been in an almost constant state of arousal since this morning, and with his brain working with only half the recommended blood volume, his decision making has taken an obvious hit. He should have known something was off when he'd almost kissed Bucky. Hell, he'd almost climbed up on the exam table and done a lot more than that. The horrors from the night before had been replaced by dream visions of his back crushed against the cell bars, Bucky kneeling in front of him, taking him apart with his mouth. And when he'd awoken pressed against the hard expanse of Bucky's naked chest, it wasn't the only firm thing in the room by a long shot. His only saving grace had been that small voice screaming at him that the object of his desire was in no condition to be exerting himself so soon after visiting death's door.

Bucky had almost _died_. Because of _him._ The thought is a shock of ice speeding through his body, dousing the flames licking at his skin. Logically, he knows it shouldn't have such a strong effect on him. After all, he's know Bucky for what? 48 hours? But he had been an absolute mess. He'd spent the first half of the night pacing, ignoring Bruce's concerned glances, and the second half busying his mind and hands by making that stupid panic button after he'd sent Bruce home, unable to take the questioning looks any longer. The last hour before he'd finally succumbed to exhaustion had been spent huddled by Bucky's bedside, worrying over the red-black bruises under his eyes and all but begging him to wake up. 

The realization that he may never see those grey eyes again had been like a punch to his chest. He'd been so focused on trying to solve the Bucky-shaped puzzle at first, and then so wholly preoccupied with trying to fight his profound and perplexing attraction, he had completely missed the point where he had actually started developing feelings. 

True, the circumstances of their meeting weren't precisely the meet-cute of an epic romance, but despite confessions to the contrary, Bucky is a good man and one he wouldn't pass up the opportunity to get to know a lot better if given a chance. Guilt turns his stomach leaden. That chance had almost been stolen from him, and it had been entirely his fault. He pushes the thought from his mind. It's no good worrying about the wrongs of the past; he needs to focus on his plan to put things right. 

Clint had informed him the Troopers had postponed their scheduled arrival due to the weather forecast, and Tony had never been so happy to learn whiteout conditions were on the way. They will still be expecting to collect a murderer when they arrive, and he would have one for them, just not the one he'd initially planned to hand over. But for his plan to succeed he needs to find Brock Rumlow. And the easiest way to do that is... _Steve_. 

Tony blows out a low breath. Steve Rogers is a whole other beast entirely, stirring something in him that he hasn't experienced before — an unassailable link that seems tied to his very core. And though the connection is different from the one he feels with Bucky, it burns just as bright. Tony rolls his eyes at himself. If he didn't feel it himself, he'd think the declaration absurd. He's never put much stock in things like soulmates, writing them off as Hallmark bullshit, fodder for romantic fools to stave off loneliness and spread hope. But now, he can't deny how he feels... for either of them.

He curses as he shoves the truck into gear and pulls away from the house. It's a strange problem to have, but a problem nonetheless. His love life had been an apocalyptic-level drought for years, and now suddenly, he's drowning in desire for two couldn't-be-more-different guys. But all his pining may be moot — he's not even sure he stands a chance with either, and he certainly can't have both... even if his body temperature notches higher at the tantalizing thought of it.

Maybe all these strange bonds he's feeling are just his neglected dick taking control of his higher brain function... or what little remains of it. Perhaps he just needs to get laid and get all this nonsense out of his system. ...No, what he _needs_ is to go home, to get some much-needed sleep. But what he _needs_ and what he _wants_ are at odds, pulling him in two different directions at once. 

He steps on the brake at the end of the drive. The impatient vibrations of the motor feed into him from the seat as indecision stutters through him. Sleep... or Steve. It's an easy decision. Tony turns the steering wheel to the left and heads away from town.

\--- 

Standing next to his truck, Tony eyes the house apprehensively. He knows he's being foolish. There had been ample opportunity to turn back, but now, suddenly standing here, uncertainty nibbles at the edges of his mind. His leg keeps time to the silent beat of anxiety surging through him as he twists Steve's scarf between his fingers. He stares down at it like it's a magic eight ball, waiting for it to extol arcane, dime-store wisdom that will set him on the right path. 

After three deep breaths, no signs are forthcoming, and the thought that Steve could happen across him, hiding beside his truck, starting down the familiar road to a panic attack, jolts him into motion. He's being ridiculous. He's already here, on official police business, no less. Well, with a side of personal business, but two birds, one stone... 

He wraps the scarf around his neck — the lingering scent of Steve that teases his nose is worth the extra heat to his skin — and strides purposefully toward the house. 

The skies had opened further overnight, and a heavy coat of snow blankets everything in sight. The faded crimson of the sprawling farmhouse topped with white paints a beautiful picture, like some kind of fairytale Christmas scene. But after a night spent pacing and then folded into the world's most uncomfortable chair, he's tired and sore, and he could do without the picturesque view. The fresh snow just makes the trek more difficult, and by the time he reaches the house, his body is heavy with fatigue and he almost wishes he'd chosen bed instead.

He stamps his feet as he ascends the wooden steps, doing his best to loosen the snow from his boots before he gets to the landing. On the last step, the door swings open before he can knock. 

"Tony."

Tony grins up at Steve. "Were you just hanging out at the front door hoping for visitors, or did my stomping give the game away?"

Steve's dazzling smile makes Tony's breath catch. It's been a while, but he can recognize flirting when it smiles at him like that. He coughs to cover his reaction as Steve ushers him inside.

"A little of both. I was waiting for someone else, but I can't lie and say I'm not happier than I should be that you showed up, instead." Steve pulls out a chair for him at the table and he sags into it gratefully. "Is everything okay? With your emergency from yesterday? I was going to call, but I only had the station's number, and it didn't feel appropriate." Steve shrugs a broad shoulder as he sinks into the chair beside Tony.

Tony leans back in his chair and eyes the hint of pink emerging from the V of Steve's navy shirt. "Is that your sly way of asking me for my number?"

"Oh, no, I didn't —" Steve stammers, the color rushing up to his cheeks. 

Tony laughs softly as he fishes his wallet out of his pants pocket. He flips it open and takes out a business card and slides it over to Steve. When warm, calloused fingers land on his, Tony freezes, his eyes snap to Steve's face, but _his_ gaze is on their joined hands. The feather-light touch sends goosebumps shivering down Tony's spine. An eternity passes in a minute before Steve's hand is sliding off his, nudging his fingers apart and pressing into the newly created space between them. There's another pause before Steve slides the card out from under Tony's hand to the edge of the table.

He lifts the glossy card, frowning as he examines it. "Conservation Officer?"

"Ah, it's a long story and an old card, but my personal number is on the back. So, now you can get a hold of me whenever you like, in any official or unofficial capacity."

Steve runs his thumb over the sharp edge of the card, his eyes narrowing and tracing the number scrawled on the back slowly, as if committing it to memory. He finally meets Tony's eyes and smiles as he slips the card carefully into his jeans pocket.

"As for the emergency, it was touch and go there for a while, but I think everything's going to be okay." As soon as the words leave Tony's mouth, a vision of Bucky floods his mind and he has the strange sensation that he's maybe just tempted the universe into proving him wrong. He shrugs off the dark feeling and drums his fingers on the table. "Steve, this may be an unusual question, but have you noticed any sick wolves around here? Or wolves displaying any odd behavior at all?"

Steve shifts in his chair and crosses his arms. "Define odd."

"Different to what is usual or expected; strange, peculiar, bizarre," Tony rattles off with a smile before turning serious. "There was a... well, sort of an attack last night at a residence not far from here. You being so close to the forest, I thought you might have noticed something out of the ordinary."

"Last night." Steve's shoulders sag slightly as he leans forward, unfolding his arms and draping them across the table. "No, I haven't seen anything like that, sorry. Attacks on humans are rare, but not unheard of. Maybe it was just a case of wrong place, wrong time?"

"Generally, I'd agree with you, but this is the second occurrence in under a week. I had a run-in with a few myself, that day in the clearing. The day your cousins..."

"There were wolves involved?" Confusion clouds Steve's face before he reaches out to grab hold of Tony's arm. "Wait, you were there? Is that how you got hurt? Did you see—?"

Tony focuses so much attention on not staring at Steve's hand on his arm, it takes him a minute to process Steve's questions. "Uh, yes to the first three, no to the fourth. It was lights out not long after I arrived, so your cousins were either there and I didn't see them, or they arrived after I was knocked out." His fingers itch to rub over the wound on his temple, but no longer covered by a dressing, the healing gash is just taped together with butterfly strips, and those are best left unscratched.

" _How_ were you knocked out?"

"I wish I knew. Somehow my head met my truck door and came out on the losing side. But, given my experience is no longer an isolated incident, I have to investigate. It could be that they're rapid, but—"

"—Infected wolves usually travel alone," Steve finishes, lifting his hand from Tony's arm and propping it under his chin as he cocks his head, considering. 

Tony nods, delighted by the keen interest filling Steve's eyes. It's a world away from the glazed-over expressions he typically receives when he starts analyzing things out loud. "Exactly. So maybe there's a problem with their food source. Humans must look like soft, squishy snacks to a starving wolf."

Steve eyes him speculatively. "When are you going out to try and find them?"

"First thing in the morning." Tony twists his fingers together on the cool tabletop. "But, ah, the thing is... I'm not all that eager to repeat the one-on-three wolfy showdown. I was thinking, given the size of you, you're certainly worth at least two, maybe three of our Canis Lupus friends, and, uh, I wouldn't say no to some quality lumberjack company, if you're up to it."

Steve straightens and gives Tony an assessing look. His free hand falls to the table where his fingers draw lazy patterns on the polished wood. "Is that — are you looking for a bodyguard or asking me on a date?"

"Oh — ah, either? Or both. I, uh — I guess it would depend on the answer."

"You can't have an answer without a question."

"Well," Tony starts before stalling. His mind and heart are both racing but his tongue feels stupidly sluggish in his mouth. It's been entirely too long since he's done this, he's not sure he remembers how. "I'm not sure of the protocol for taking dates on official town business, but if your answer would be yes, then I'm willing to make it up as we go along. I might even be able to rustle up some muffins from the cafe, and you could wear your plaid shirt, take it for us to use as a blanket, and we can have a little post-investigation picnic when we're done..."

Steve's lips tug down at the corners, and panic sends icy fingers wrapping around Tony's throat. Oh, shit. Oh, _fuck_ Steve looks five seconds away from declining his invitation with an ' _it's not you, it's me_.' Tony's obviously — completely, idiotically — misread this whole situation. Steve was probably asking him to clarify his intentions to let him down gently. Of course he's going to say no. Look at him — why would he be interested in a hick-town sheriff? The stretching silence is drowned out by the rapid pounding in his ears. He needs to backtrack immediately, to pretend he was joking, or, or... _something_. This is what comes of thinking he could try on both men he's interested in like competing pairs of shoes to see which fits better — instant karma for almost kissing Bucky this morning and asking Steve out on a date hours later. Though to be fair, he's not even sure Bucky is interested in him like that, so the universe should give him the benefit of the doubt. Still, the looming rejection from Steve has his cheeks burning in anticipation. He opens his mouth — to say what, he doesn't know — but Steve's soft voice stops him.

"I'd like that."

Tony's mouth hangs open for a good three seconds before he manages to snap it closed, swallow his shock as discretely as he can manage, and remember how to form words. "I — uh — you would?"

"Yeah, it sounds nice. Though I think you're overestimating the size of my shirt."

Tony lets out a shaky laugh as eyes drift over the fabric currently straining across Steve's chest. He shakes his head. "I think you're underestimating the size of _you_ and the sheer yardage required to cover all of —" Tony gestures up and down Steve's body "— _that_." He darts his tongue over his suddenly dry lips. " _Steve..._ "

"Rogers, your stupid truck is refusing to start again." The melodic voice enters the room before the redhead it belongs to. "I tried to — oh." The woman pauses, her shrewd gaze flitting between them. "Sorry to interrupt, Steve. I didn't realize you were having a play-date."

"Nat," Steve growls, though the gruff edges are softened with a tone of long-suffering affection that Tony recognizes well. It's the same tone he reserves for Barton. 

"Where are your manners, Rogers? It's customary to introduce people after awkward interruptions." She leans against the door frame, a smirk twisting the corner of her lips.

"Nat, this is Tony Stark. Tony, this is Natasha Romanoff, best friend and biggest pain in my ass." 

Nat's head whips toward Steve, sending her red curls dancing prettily. "Tony? _The_ Tony?"

The fresh flush creeping up Steve's neck, much more vibrant than earlier, shouldn't be so attractive. And Tony shouldn't be fighting the urge to sweep his tongue over it. He clears his throat and turns his attention to Nat. "I don't know about _the_ Tony, but I'm definitely _a_ Tony." 

"I was just telling Nat about your attempted murder, yesterday," Steve mumbles, eyes on the table.

"Amongst other things, like how good you—" Nat breaks off as Steve's head jerks up, staring at her with stormy eyes and silent threats. She has the good grace to look slightly contrite. 

A thrill runs through Tony. He suspects it's been a long time since anyone deemed him worthy of being discussed in that way. And he so hopes it's in _that_ way. Even if it means Steve's discomfort is so extreme, it's almost another physical entity in the room. Tony ducks his head while he wrangles his lips back into a neutral line.

"How good you are at your job," Steve finishes pointedly.

Face suitably reset, Tony meets Steve's gaze. "Well, I won't be winning _Sheriff of the Year_ any time soon, but you should see me with a wrench in my hand, I'm definitely award-worthy. I'm happy to take a look at your truck if it's giving you trouble."

"That would be amaz—" Nat starts.

"Unnecessary," Steve cuts in. "But thank you for the offer."

Nat rolls her eyes. "I'm sure you've learned this already, but our boy here is bad at accepting help. Even when that help comes in the form of a hot sheriff. Steve, don't you think Tony here would look so pretty bent over a hood? All greasy and sweaty and ready to—"

Steve's sudden surge to his feet interrupts Nat's ribbing. Before he can say a word, a large hand wraps around Tony's wrist, and he's pulled to his feet. His body follows the forward momentum as Steve tugs him out of the kitchen, through the family room, and out the back door. The door slamming behind them cuts off Nat's musical laughter chasing them from the room. 

Steve takes the steps two at a time, and Tony stumbles behind him, only saved from falling by the strong fingers still imprisoning his wrist, pulling him forward as effectively as a leash. Steve's legs swallow up the ground quickly, and Tony half-hops into the ready-made footfalls in front of him to keep his shoulder in its socket. He drops his head low, focusing on picking a safe path through the snowy ground in front of him. So preoccupied with his feet placement, he doesn't notice when Steve stops suddenly, and Tony crashes into his back, bounces off him, and falls backward. The hold on his wrist jerks him forward, keeping him from a landing on his ass.

Steve, now facing him, releases his wrist to use both hands to press over his shoulders instead. "You alright?"

Tony runs through a quick mental checklist. Hot guy inches from his face: check. Hot guy's hands on him: check. Visions of hot guy dragging him to bed and putting those hands on other, more sensitive things: check. He nods, rubbing his now-free wrist. "Never better."

Steve's eyes track the movement and he winces. "Shit. Did I hurt you?"

Tony lets his hand drop to his side and shakes his head. "Takes more than that to put a dent in me." He tries not to focus on the way Steve's shoulders relax, and that megawatt smile puts in an appearance at the confirmation he's unscathed.

"Good." Steve opens the door, steps through, and holds it open for Tony to follow. "I'm sorry about that. It's just those walls have ears... and a very loud mouth," Steve mutters.

"I know how it is," Tony offers quickly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior once Steve pulls the door shut. His disorientation eases when warm light starts glowing from the collection of small bulbs set into the ceiling. He spins in a slow circle, taking in what seems to be a well-lived in, though sparsely decorated, guesthouse. "I think we have a matching set. If you came to the station and Barton was around, I'd be the one fleeing from the unpredictable mortification slipping past his lips. But best friends exist to embarrass us. I think it's their sole purpose in life." Tony's slow spin falters as Steve comes to stand in front of him. 

"Does that mean you've been talking about me?" The unspoken ' _too_ ' is written across Steve's cheeks in a wash of pink.

"Oh, well." Tony shrugs offhandedly, distracted by the way Steve's hair glows golden under the light — the same light that drifts down to kiss his cheekbones and dance along his chiseled jaw. He looks every inch the golden god — some kind immortal that Tony has no right being in the presence of, let alone casting his eyes upon. Steve is so out of his league, Tony isn't even in the game. 

The truth is, he _had_ told Clint and Bruce about Steve, though he'd chosen not to disclose the instantaneous attraction, heavy flirting, and neck-nuzzling moments. They are already side-eyeing him over his... his _thing_ with Bucky, he's not sure he can muster up a plausible explanation of his feelings for another murder-adjacent dreamboat. He looks into Steve's bright blue eyes and tries for a wry smile, rubbing two fingers over his throat. "Kind of necessary exposition."

"Ah, right." Steve takes a small step backward, the warmth in his voice fading. "That's why you came... to speak with Rumlow."

Tony hesitates. Brock _had_ been his excuse, but Steve had been the reason. Tony decides the confession is best left unsaid. "Is he back?"

"No, sorry. When he left yesterday, I thought... but now I'm not so sure he's coming back." Cocking his head to the side, Steve gives Tony an appraising look. "You don't seem surprised."

"I've had time to think on things since I was out here yesterday. I know he's your family, and you don't think there's any way he's involved—" Tony's words dam themselves in his throat as Steve holds up a hand to stop him.

"I'm not sure _what_ to think anymore. Things I thought were true have turned out to be anything but, and things I had never considered a possibility..." His gaze drops to Tony's lips. "Listen, about yesterday..."

"I know," Tony interjects. "It was a bit of an impromptu clusterfuck, and things should have been handled differently. Your cousin shouldn't have gotten a pass just because I took a shine to you. You were right; he should be in a cell." And if Tony has his way, he soon will be.

The corner of Steve's lip pulls up slowly. "That... isn't really where I was going, but that's the first time I've ever heard someone admit they're wrong without actually admitting they were wrong. Very impressive."

"Is that so? You know, easily impressed is a quality I look for in a man; it saves the crushing disappointment later."

Steve's laugh is low and seductive. "I'm sure you are very impressive in very many areas." He moves closer, reclaiming the space relinquished earlier. "But speaking of disappointment, I am sorry you came all this way for nothing."

"It wasn't for nothing. I had to return this," Tony murmurs, pulling the scarf from his neck in one long slide and pressing it into Steve's hands. "I ran out of here so fast yesterday that I forgot I was wearing it. I can't afford a larceny charge on my record, it'll be hell to explain when it comes time for re-election. "

"I'll still vote for you," Steve hums, taking hold of the ends of the scarf and letting it drape from his hands. His fingers brush against Tony's skin as he loops the scarf back around his neck. "Besides, you should consider this a gift. An apology in physical form. It's not much, but I don't think they make ' _sorry my kin tried to kill you'_ cards." 

Tony breathes deeply, the heady scent of Steve fills his lungs and fogs his head. "Cards are overrated. They're neither soft nor cozy, and they sure as hell don't smell as good as you."

Tony can see the pure _want_ on Steve's face, no doubt a mirror of his own, but he can feel uncertainty and frustration seeping from Steve's skin. He traps the breath in his lungs, waiting, _hoping,_ for desire to win the battle raging in Steve's eyes as he runs the ends of the scarf through his fingers, rubbing his thumb in circles over the thick fabric. Tony trails his hands over Steve's chest, marveling at the warmth that radiates through the navy cotton before dipping lower, crawling down to rest on the ridge of denim jutting against him. With a deep groan, Steve tugs on the edges of the scarf, jerking him forward, and brushes their lips together. It's sweet and soft and sensual... and not nearly enough. 

Tony threads his hands through Steve's hair and wrenches him closer, his tongue hunting over the seam of Steve's lips, moaning as they yield to him, parting immediately. At the hungry sound, Steve's hesitation falls away, driving their mouths together urgently, his tongue thrusting greedily, lapping up the taste of Tony — kissing him like he's laying claim to him. And when sharp teeth nip at his tongue, Tony can't stop his desperate whimper spilling into Steve's mouth.

Steve breaks the kiss with a growl and mouths over Tony's jaw, tugging the scarf down to sweep his tongue wetly over fervent skin as he works his way lower to suck a bruise into the tender arch of Tony's neck, _marking_ him. The thought sets his nerves lighting up like fireworks, and he gasps and jerks back, throbbing wetly and almost losing control completely.

"Fuck. I'm sorry, I didn't — I'm just — but I'm not usually —" Tony stammers, stumbling back a step and running a shaky hand through his hair.

"If you want to stop, it's fine, you just have to say so," Steve drags in a ragged breath "Otherwise, feel free to finish any one of those sentences."

"Stop? No, I just don't want you to get the wrong idea before we do what I think we're going to do. Or, god, what I _hope_ we're going to do. It's just... we barely know each other," Tony babbles, "and I don't want you to think that I'm... well... you know. Because I don't usually do _this._ " Tony gestures between them helplessly, dismayed at how utterly off the rails his whole monologue is going. "I'm ah, a little out of sorts, and I was blaming the concussion, but I think maybe I'm coming down with the flu or something because I'm hot and achy and wow, that's not really something you want to hear from someone who's just had their tongue down your throat, I'm sorry. I promise I have an entirely clean bill of health otherwise." Tony drags in a long breath to refill his burning lungs. "I just wanted to get that clear before what comes next."

Steve stalks forward slowly, closing the distance between them. "Which is what?"

"Which is me throwing myself down on your bed and begging you to fuck me."

The low rumble from Steve's chest makes Tony's legs tremble alarmingly, but Steve's hands grip his waist firmly, taking his weight easily and keeping him upright.

"Tony, I want to. You have no idea how much, But I can't—"

Pressed against Steve's body, Tony can feel the reciprocated interest and, Jesus, fuck, that is _a lot_ of interest. Emboldened, Tony rocks his hips forward, dragging the twin swells of trapped hardness together, moaning at the stuttering gasp that breaks from Steve's throat. "It sure _feels_ like you can," Tony breathes, daring to snake a hand between their bodies to palm Steve's denim-clad cock.

Steve hisses and grabs Tony's wrist, stilling it but not lifting it away. "Tony, you don't understand. I need to—" His words are swept away on a moan as Tony squeezes the rise under his hand again before tracing the shape of Steve through his jeans. 

"Need to what?"

Tony's lust-addled brain registers his body being lifted before he's sailing through the air, and landing on the marshmallow-soft mattress, bouncing softly as the springs beneath him work to stabilize his weight. 

Steve strides to the bed, and Tony almost comes at the look on Steve's face as he climbs onto the bed and straddles him. Tony fights against the sinking-pull of the mattress and struggles to his elbows. "You didn't finish your sentence. Don't leave me hanging here, Steve," Tony grinds out as Steve's hands make quick work of his belt and tug down his jeans and thermals. Tony kicks off his boots as Steve slides the clothing off and discards it at the end of the bed. 

Steve licks his lips, staring down at the hard curve of Tony's cock, now leaking on his belly. "I need to taste you." Without another word, he surges forward and takes Tony's cock into his mouth, swallowing him down entirely.

"Oh, _fuck me,_ " Tony gasps, arching off the bed.

Steve's body is hot, but his mouth is pure fire. Heat floods Tony's cock from the inside and out as Steve swallows around him before pulling up slowly. Tony collapses back onto the bed as Steve's hand wraps around the base of his cock, pumping firmly as he sucks at the head. Tony thrashes frantically as Steve's tongue slides around him, flicking and licking and burrowing into his drooling hole, coaxing out bead after bead of precome, and moaning like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.

Tony tries to focus on the beads of sweat slicking his skin and collecting behind his knees, on the way his legs are trembling, and his chest is heaving, and his heart is racing so fast he may actually be having a heart attack — anything but the pure ecstasy of Steve's mouth and the spiraling heat between his thighs curling tighter, pushing him to the edge much too quickly. 

"Fuck, Steve, no, no, no... stop, you're gonna make me come," Tony warns, tugging urgently on Steve's hair, trying to pull him up.

Steve just groans and swallows him down again, the growling, hungry noises reverberating through Tony's cock as Steve nuzzles at his belly and reaches down to clutch his balls, rolling them between skilled fingers.

"Steve! Oh god, oh god, _oh fuckkkk_ ," Tony's hoarse shouts fill the room as his orgasm tears through him. His body coils tight and convulses as his cock throbs and floods Steve's throat, still swallowing around him.

Once his cock finishes pulsing, Tony renews his tugging on Steve's hair as the sensation becomes too much. The slow drag out of Steve's mouth draws small whimpers from his lips, breaking through his harsh panting as he struggles to catch his breath. With his hands still tangled in Steve's hair, Tony pulls him up to claim that scorching mouth again, licking the lingering taste of himself off Steve's tongue.

Tony pulls back with a groan, finally releasing Steve's hair to run his fingers through it. "Uh, sorry for going off like a rocket, but it's been a while since I spent any quality time in anything but my fist, and your mouth is something else." Pushing at Steve's shoulders, Tony guides him back onto the bed, switching their positions, and straddles Steve's thighs. His fingers catch on the cotton of Steve's shirt as he rakes his fingers down it, feeling the hard muscle beneath. "How are you even real? Are you even human?" Tony's hands come to rest on the button of Steve's jeans, and he frees it from it's cage with trembling fingers just as Steve's hands come up and seize his.

"Tony, it's okay, I'm fine. I don't need to."

"The straining fabric would suggest otherwise," Tony chuckles. He tries to tug his hands free, but the pressure around them only increases.

"I can deal with it later. I'd rather just lay here with you and talk."

"Talk?" Confusion and doubt burn away his post-pleasure fog. "There are so many better things I can do with my mouth. I know I said it's been a while, Steve, but I'm pretty sure I remember what to do. If I hadn't blown my load down your throat like some inexperienced teenager, I'm pretty sure you'd be fucking me right now. As it stands, having you fuck my mouth instead is still one hell of a consolation prize."

The strangled noise in Steve's throat is broken mix of a moan and whimper. "I'm sorry, I just...." He trails off as a shrill ring sounds from the floor beside the bed. "You should probably get that," he says flatly, finally releasing Tony's hands. "It could be another emergency."

Reeling from the sudden turn of events and severe shift in mood, Tony climbs off Steve and clambers to the end of the bed. He scoops up his pants and grabs his phone. "What?" He doesn't mean to snap, but all the endorphins that had been flooding his body after the best blow job of his life have dried up and died in the face of Steve's rejection. 

"Tony! Hey, man, I know your shift doesn't start for another couple of hours, but I thought you'd want to know I'm heading over to Lang's to pick up a D&D."

The scowl he can feel pulling at his features passes unfiltered into his voice. A drunk and disorderly is hardly an emergency. And before noon? How drunk and disorderly can they be? "And I need to know this, why?"

"Because it's Brock Rumlow."

Tony spits out a curse as he hikes his shoulder up to hold the phone to his ear and starts pulling on his abandoned clothing. "I am out at the Rogers' property, but I'm leaving now. Do _not_ go by yourself, Clint. He's dangerous."

"Well, you better hurry. It sounds like he's tearing up the place, and I'm not sure how long Scott will hold out before he pulls the shotgun from under the bar."

 _Fuck._ That's the last thing he needs. "Alright, I'll be there as soon as I can. Wait for me." Tony ends the call and shoves the phone into his pocket as he turns back to the bed. "I'm sorry, but I need—" he breaks off, blinking stupidly at the empty mattress. 

"To leave, I know." The strained voice sounds from behind him, and Tony spins toward it to find Steve by the door, holding it open, a grim look on his face. "But this time, I'm coming with you."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ For Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [Card:3034][Square: R1: Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes]
> 
> i. Trigger warning for blood/violence in this chapter. But, you can't have a showdown without spilling a little blood, right?

Bucky has to leave — tonight. 

The slamming of the door drowns out protesting springs as he sinks onto the now familiar mattress. Dark hair curtains his vision as he drops his head low and sends up a silent prayer of thanks to every deity he can summon the name of, for the call that made Clint bolt out of the station. 

Barton had been more than decent to him this morning, bundling him up in blankets to protect him from the sun during the transfer from the clinic to the cabin. He'd made jokes - mostly at Tony's expense - on the way, and Bucky had found himself appreciating the dry sense of humor and easy-going attitude of his new chaperone. Still, it had taken every ounce of self-control acquired over his too-long life to stop himself from popping the good deputy like a juice box and gulping him down, squeezing out every last drop and letting him crumple, empty, to the floor. 

Just the thought has his fangs, retracted and dry, aching with desperation. Thirst scorches his throat like he's swallowed the sun, and the tattered remains of his willpower are slipping away from him rapidly. It's only a matter of time before his need to feed will eclipse everything else, and then no one will be safe… not even Tony. 

Bucky had wanted to wait until he'd been released from Tony's custody to leave, preferring, if possible, to avoid stirring up more trouble than he had already. But now, with his pick-up postponed, the full moon creeping closer, and his thirst taking over, he has no choice. Though still weakened by venom, silver, and hunger, waiting will only serve to make things worse. Fixing the last will help with the rest, and it _has_ to be tonight. 

Tucked away in the clinic by himself, he has spent the morning with little else to do but plan. There's no room for error; a mistake could cost a life he isn't willing to forfeit. There are days yet left until the full moon, but the blood trail he'll leave for the shifters will hold. Sensitive noses will pick out his scent, and they'll follow his path… and he'll be ready. He'll make his stand and let the chips fall where they may. 

Maybe, if he makes it out alive, he'll come back. Just to check his plan worked, that Tony's okay. He scrubs a hand through his hair, pushing the long strands back and raking his nails over his scalp in frustration. He should just stay away — Tony will probably fare better on his own, anyway. For all his efforts to protect Tony over the last few days, Bucky had required more rescuing than the reverse. Somehow, he has found himself closer to ashes more times in the last few days than he has in his hundred years prior.   
  
Bucky curses under his breath. It's almost like he's incapable of learning from his mistakes.

It's not the sounds of footsteps on wood - one set stamping, one dragging - that pulls Bucky's focus and makes his head snap up, but the _scent_. The scent of shifter is undeniable, like the stink of wet dog, but each wolf has its own stench, and this one is familiar. Bucky surges to his feet, tension thrumming through his braced body as the station door swings open to reveal the two men locked together, stumbling forward out of the swirling white. 

Clint is struggling to move the shifter — not as tall as Barton, but broader — through the doorway, with an arm locked around his throat in a chokehold, and a hand gripping a fistful of dark hair. Clint toes the edge of the door, catching it and kicking it closed behind him. 

Bucky's eyes narrow, sensing the attack before it comes. 

Taking advantage of the distraction and shifting weight, the Lycan jabs an elbow back and slips his confines as Clint doubles over with a grunt. Free of his human restraints, the shifter pivots and brings his knee up, slamming it into Clint's face. The spray of blood from Clint's nose paints a gruesome pattern over the faded blue of the shifter's jeans before Barton collapses to the floor, his head lolling lifelessly to the side. 

Bucky's low hiss draws the shifter's attention and his head whips toward the cell. Bucky _knows_ this shifter. The scent, rushing from his skin on sharp notes of adrenaline, is the same Bucky had caught that morning in the clearing. _This_ is the shifter that had escaped. The one that had tried to kill Tony. 

Bucky charges at the cell door and slams his shoulder against the bars. Metal groans but doesn't give, and pain reverberates down to the still unhealed wound at his side. Rage catches like a flame inside him, burning through the pain — of all the fucking days for the shifter to show, it had to be when hunger and silver have eaten away at his strength. Backing up, he draws his fangs low. He may not survive this fight, but he'll take the mutt to hell with him.

Surging forward, Bucky beats his body against the steel again and again, until the sounds of metal finally yielding under his fury breaks through the shifter's low laughter. The barred door swings open with force enough to embed the deadbolt into the cabin wall, sending wooden splinters flying across the room. 

Cold brown eyes flicker with recognition as Bucky stalks forward, and a thrill runs through him as recognition surrenders to fear. The shifter's eyes edge wide and dart around the room, looking for leverage. But wrapped in flesh rather than fur, and without the blaze of sunlight scorching Bucky's skin, the shifter's advantages are lost. Bucky's lips pull up in anticipation, and he caresses a pointed peak with his tongue. 

Brash bravado — powered by courage, stupidity, or both — flashes across the shifter's face before a snarl rips from his throat, and he charges at Bucky. Expecting the shifter to flee not fight, Bucky's caught off guard as the unexpected weight propels him back against the cell. His vision sparks white as his head slams against the bars, and a fist connects with his jaw.

Bucky hammers a fist into the shifter's gut, forcing the air from his lungs in a harsh grunt. Finding purchase across the bars with the well-worn sole of his boot, Bucky shoves off the cell, driving the shifter forward until his back collides with the desk, sending it skidding across the floor and the chair beside it, crashing to the ground.

Strong legs twist around Bucky's torso, right over left, and spin him, forcing his back against the shifter's chest. An arm snakes around Bucky's neck, crushing against his windpipe, and the foul stench of dog and sweat and fear steaming from the flesh so close to his face burns his nose and turns his stomach. Straining against the hold, Bucky swivels toward the swell of the shifter's bicep by his cheek and plunges his fangs into the thick muscle, jerking his head down, feeling the flesh shredding under the force of his teeth. Bitter blood floods his tongue, and he spits the filth from his mouth as the shifter screams and snatches his arm away.

Bucky snaps his head back violently, catching the shifter's nose before grabbing the punctured arm and spinning, reversing their positions, coming around behind the shifter's back. A sharp shoulder blade rises under the black shirt as Bucky jerks the shifter's arm up behind his back and twists roughly. The loud crack of breaking bones is swallowed up in a howl of pain as they splinter and slice free of their flesh prison. The arm falls away as Bucky releases his grip, and the shifter staggers forward, out of his reach.

Blood flows freely, dripping to the floor. The quiet pattering punctuates the shifter's harsh panting as he locks his eyes on the shards of white bone protruding grotesquely from red flesh. The crimson pool spreads rapidly at his feet, but its glistening surface breaks as he steps backward and slips in the viscous liquid. Red streaks ride his feet as they skid out from under him, and he lands hard on the floor. 

Towering over the broken body, Bucky haunts this shifter's movements as he drags himself back toward the door with his good arm, the other hanging uselessly by his side. Bucky lets the shifter scramble backward, lets him feel a flicker of hope before he crushes his foot down on the heaving chest, pinning the dog in place. But the world tilts abruptly as a leg kicks out and sweeps Bucky's leg from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. 

Desperation sours the air around them as the shifter lunges at him. Sharp nails rake over Bucky's stomach as the shifter shoves his shirt aside and scrapes the dressing from his skin. Stretching forward, he sinks his teeth into the still unhealed wound on Bucky's side, gnawing and tearing at the already damaged flesh.

Pain screams through Bucky, and he seizes fistfuls of the shifter's hair, seeking to yank him up, to pull him away. A deep growl and high pitched whine split the air, and the dark strands in his palm break free as the shifter is snatched from his grasp.

There's an insistent tugging on his arm, and with eyes still pinched shut, Bucky vaults his elbow out, shaking it off. A loud crash and cry of pain has him wrenching his eyes open to find Tony, crumpled against the desk. 

Guilt constricts Bucky's throat as he staggers to his feet, and stumbles forward, toward Tony, but a hulking blond gets there first. He falls to his knees and lifts Tony's head carefully, inspecting the damage.

"Jesus, Tony, are you okay?" The blond's focus switches to Bucky as he advances, and he pivots, shiftings his weight, forming a defensive stance in front of Tony. A storm of emotion flashes across his face before he growls, low and threatening. "Stay back."

Tony spits out a mouthful of blood and swipes at his split lip as he drags himself up to a sitting position. He lays a hand on the blond's arm and shakes his head. "It's okay. He's okay. It was an accident."

Bucky freezes, the blond's scent finally reaching him through the fog of pain. _Lycan_. His mind races, trying to coalesce the disjointed information into something that makes sense. The shifter had been the one to pull his kin from Bucky, and now, the acrid taste of fear floods the air around him, but this posturing makes it clear — it isn't fear _of_ _him,_ it's fear _for_ _Tony._

Movement in his peripheral vision pulls his focus, and he jerks his head toward the door in time to see the injured shifter disappearing outside. Bucky lunges forward, groaning as agony flares in his side. He presses his hand to ravaged flesh, frowning at the black-cherry colored blood seeping from the wound. Oh, he is going to enjoy putting the mutt down, now. Gritting his teeth, Bucky strides toward the door despite the pain. 

"Stop!"

At Tony's voice, Bucky pauses and twists back. His eyes dart from the blood trickling from the gash in Tony's lip and staining his chin, up to the dark bruise already blooming over his cheekbone. Trying to keep his voice even, Bucky shakes his head. "I can't. I have to go after him. He almost killed you."

" _You_ almost killed him." The blond spits out, placing large hands around Tony's waist and helping him to his feet. 

"I'm fine." Tony shrugs off the blond's hands. Placing one hand on the surface of the desk, he splays his fingers wide and locks his elbow, letting it take his weight as he pulls open the desk drawer. After fishing around inside, Tony pulls out shoulder holster and slings it over his arm before reaching back into the drawer and lifting out a revolver. He pushes off the desk and uses both hands to check the cylinder, then slides it into the holster. "I need you both to stay here. Clint and I will go after him." 

Bucky turns to see Clint, now on his feet and mostly steady, clutching a shotgun, waiting by the door. His nose is swollen and bruised, and the blood soaking into his coat has almost dried, but his face is set in grim determination.

"Tony —" the blond starts, but Bucky cuts him off. 

"You're in no condition to hunt him down — either of you," Bucky barks, taking another step toward the door. 

"Please _._ " 

Tony's beseeching tone tugs at Bucky's gut, and he stills, though he holds his position. Armed or not, he can't let Tony go after the shifter — Tony doesn't know _what_ he's going after. 

"I need you to trust me," Tony continues, his voice rough. "I can handle this, but I need you to stay in here until I get back." Finally, Bucky twists back to see Tony standing by the open cell door, an anguished look on his face. "Do this for me. _Please_ , Bucky. "

Indecision eats at Bucky. The shifter could be lying in wait, holding out for a second chance to take him down — to take Tony down. And the gun at Tony's side is nothing but a confidence boost unless he has some platinum bullets tucked away in the cylinder. Wind slices into the station, bringing nothing but the cold, clean scent of fresh snow. No wolf. No blood. Chances are he's gone, run off to lick his wounds. And in his state, he would be stupid to attempt an ambush. But is Bucky willing to risk Tony's life on those chances? So far, trying to save Tony had not had its intended outcome. Going against his better judgment, he'd ended up a hindrance more often than a help, but if he were to ignore Tony's wishes and ended up putting him in danger because of it… 

Uncertainty slows his steps as he moves to Tony. At the threshold to the cell, he pauses, and Tony reaches down to squeeze his hand. " _Thank you._ " Relief shimmers in those beautiful brown eyes, and Bucky can almost convince himself he's doing the right thing. 

Yet when he lowers himself back onto the bunk, he turns away from the door, unable to watch Tony step out of the station and into danger... Again. The steel frame of the bed twists under his grip. 

Bucky keeps his head down, and his every muscle tensed, as soft footfalls approach the bars. The hulking shifter moves quietly for his size, with movements that speak of confidence and grace and lethality. Bucky waits for the next move, knowing in his current condition, he's more than outmatched, but it won't stop him from going down swinging. 

"It was _you_ ?" The words slice from the shifter's throat like they're causing him physical pain to push out. " _You're_ the one that killed Pierce and Malek?"

Keeping his head bowed, Bucky ignores the question, irritation building inside him. He's so tired of the question, and he doesn't owe the shifter anything, let alone answers. If he knows Bucky killed his packmates, he sure as hell knows _why._

"Answer me, Buck."

The nickname echoes through him like a shot, and his head jolts up. Confusion churns inside him as he unfolds from the mattress and pushes to his feet slowly. A thousand thoughts streak through his mind in a second, all of them inconceivable, unimaginable, impossible. It can't be… Bucky's eyes widen as they stalk over the formidable figure in front of him. 

"... _Steve_?" 

Throughout his many years spent languishing on this planet, Bucky had witnessed some genuinely incredible changes... and all of them pale in comparison to the transformation of the man standing before him.

Steve had been so different the last time he'd seen him. Barely to Bucky's shoulder, Steve had been a study in contrasts; piss and vinegar pickling his bones and padding his skin, forever raging against the world even while his immeasurable heart — with its incomparable capacity to love so purely and so fiercely — struggled to be contained in such a slight body. 

Bucky closes the distance between them in two quick strides, though the past five years remain a yawning chasm between them. His eyes trace the hard lines of Steve's body — taller and broader, with skin stretched across endless swells of muscle instead of modest bones. The thin jaw had squared, too-sharp cheekbones had mellowed to chiseled perfection, and those eyes… Bucky's brows pinch together as his gaze fixes on Steve's. The eyes that had been the color of a clear sky on a sunny day are darker now, a stormy blue all but obscuring the thin gold ring bordering his pupil. The familiar fragrance of charcoal and paint that had always lingered on Steve's skin has faded — chased away by the unmistakable scent of wolf.

" _You were bitten_." Bucky's voice drags from his throat like it has claws, desperate to stay, not wanting to hear the confirmation despite the undeniable truth standing in front of him. 

Something unreadable flashes in Steve's eyes, but it's gone as quickly as it appears, taking the familiarity with it. "You killed them. _Why?_ " Steve's voice is cold, impersonal. 

"Why would you care? They stole your life from you, and you still just fall in line, a good little dog following commands?"

Steve's hand curls around the bar as he leans forward. "I care because you killed two of my pack, Barnes. I thought _you didn't do that anymore._ "

The venom in Steve's voice stuns Bucky, but it's his own words being thrown back at him that hits him like a blow to the chest. "They weren't human, and if they are your pack, then you know why I had to."

Steve's grip tightens on the bars as a shadow of confusion darkens his face. "What are you talking about? You can't pretend it was a fair fight. You killed them in the morning, without warning or reason."

"Without reason?" Bucky scoffs. He pushes forward against the bars, so close he can feel Steve's sharp exhale dance across his cheeks. "I can smell him on you, you know. His arousal, on your breath. Just like you lingered on his skin this morning. I don't know what game you're playing, Rogers. Maybe you're just using him to get to me. Is that it? Or do you like to play with your food before you devour it?" Bucky growls low in his throat. "I saw them in the clearing that morning. I don't care how your pack-mutts learned how to shift at will, but I wasn't about to let them kill Tony. I had to stop them. And if it comes to it, I will stop you, too."

"Kill Tony? Shifting—?" Steve shakes his head, angrily. "Stop lying to me, Buck. For once, just tell me the fucking truth. Own up to your actions."

Bucky finally recoils, stepping back from the bars. "I'm not lying. I never lied to you, and you know it."

Steve releases the bar and runs his hand through his hair, frustration steaming from his skin. "That's not — They can't — I would _know_ if that's what happened."

"Jesus, Steve, wake the fuck up. Your packmates are lying to you!"

"They _can't_ lie to me! They're not my packmates; they're _my pack_."

The words slam into Bucky, knocking the fight out of him. Understanding uncoils lazily in his mind. "You're… You're an _alpha_?"

Steve squares his shoulders and notches his head high. "Not so small anymore."

Regret weighs heavy on Bucky's shoulders. He knows he's made more than his fair share of mistakes, but Steve would never be listed among them. "You were never small to me."

"Easy enough to leave, though."

Staring at the pain-pinched, strange-yet-familiar face in front of him, Bucky feels something deep inside him break. "Steve…" 

Bucky reaches through the bars, but Steve jerks away, spinning away from the cell and striding to the exit. He makes it to the door just as it swings open, and Tony and Clint step inside.

Relief rolls through Bucky, and he stumbles back until his legs bump up against the twisted metal frame of the bunk. Dropping onto the mattress, he watches as Steve places a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Did you find him?" 

Tony shakes his head and moves into the cabin as Clint does his best wet dog impersonation — shaking the dense layer of snow from his purple parka. 

"No. He's gone, and the storm is rolling in faster than anticipated. Visibility will be down to naught in a few hours, so we thought it best we come back while we could still find the way without breadcrumbs."

"Tony, is it — " Steve falters, and looks toward Bucky. He draws a deep breath and clenches his jaw before turning back. "Is it still okay if I borrow your truck? With the storm, I'd like to collect the bodies before it gets worse."

"Oh, yeah. The lunar burial. Of course." Tony shifts subtly, dropping his shoulder, sliding out from under Steve's touch before fishing his keys out of his pocket and handing them over. "Bruce is expecting you."

Steve hesitates, turning the keys over in his hands. "Thank you. I'll bring it back in the morning."

Tony shrugs and takes a step backward, crossing his arms over his chest. "No rush. Whenever the storm dies down will be fine, I won't need it till then. But, if you wouldn't mind taking Clint to the clinic with you—"

"Tony, I'm fine," Clint interjects with a scowl. "It's not broken, and nothing some pizza, beer, and animal planet can't fix." 

"—I'd like Bruce to give him the once over, just in case," Tony finishes, acting like he hadn't been interrupted. 

"Fine," Clint huffs, grabbing the station cell phone from the floor where it had landed during the fight. "But _I'm_ on call tomorrow. Now we're off babysitting duty, it's probably going to be snooze-city around here again, so you really should try and get some more beauty sleep, Tony. God knows you need it." He waves over his shoulder before grabbing Steve's wrist. "Hand over the keys, man, I'm driving," Clint's voice rises above the howling wind as he tugs Steve through the door. 

Tony slumps against the desk and sighs. "Hey, honey, I'm home. How was your day? Mine went a little off the rails."

Bucky takes stock of Tony — his lips are chapped from cold, making the puffy red split look even worse, and the dark red-black of the bruise on his cheekbone had bled out further under his skin, creeping up to his eye and curving down toward his ear. Guilt turns his gut rancid. "I'm sorry I hurt you."

A small smile plays on Tony's lips as he waves off the apology. "I've had worse. Hell, I've had worse _this week_." Shoving off the desk with a groan, he makes his way into the cell, coming to stand beside Bucky. He drops like a stone to the bunk and nudges Bucky with his shoulder, wearily. "Do you want me to have a look at your new-old-wound? I promise only to use silver-free dressings." 

Bucky smiles despite himself and shakes his head. "No, thanks. I'll throw a little water on it, it'll be fine." 

"Well, you're welcome to use my shower." 

"Does that invitation come with an explanation?"

"Ahh," Tony shrugs sheepishly. "This is going to be entirely anticlimactic after the shit show that just played out in here, but you're a free man. The paperwork has been updated — every _i_ dotted and _t_ crossed, so you can finally say goodbye to this godforsaken mattress." Tony bounces gently in place, frowning at the squeaking springs. "I never knew it was so uncomfortable, sorry. And, uh, I never asked you where you lived. Obviously, it's not around here; I would have noticed you. So I thought, if you don't have anywhere to go, you are welcome to stay with me. No strings, no quid pro quo, no more questions, just a much better bed and amazing water pressure."

Bucky startles at Tony's babbling, unexpected offer. With Tony's body radiating warmth, pressed up against his, the temptation is almost too great to pass up. But the scent of blood and sweat and wolf cling to him, and Bucky knows it's possibly the worst idea, ever. Staying with Tony means bleeding the target onto him, too... more than it already is. And that's only _if_ he manages to avoid killing Tony himself. Bucky is finally learning his lesson: bad things happen when he is around Tony. "I don't think that's a very good idea." 

Tony's shoulders fall. "Oh. Well, it's a better idea than the alternative. Visibility is down; I think we'll be looking at a full whiteout by morning. But it's still too dangerous to travel far tonight."

"I'll be fine." 

"Maybe, but… as sheriff, I have a duty to protect the people in this town, and that includes everyone — citizens, visitors… _you_. I think it's best if you stay until the storm passes."

"I can't." This afternoon had changed things. Now, more than ever, he needs to feed, to regain his strength and heal. The injured shifter will be back, and Bucky needs to be ready. Leading them away won't work, not now. He needs to be here to protect Tony, but he needs to remain out of sight. He can't give the shifters an advantage; he needs the element of surprise. 

"You can. Even just for tonight. Please." 

Those brown eyes are staring at him again, wide and pleading, and Bucky's resolve wavers. He purses his lips together, wanting to say no, to stand up and walk away, but instead, he murmurs, "Why do you want me to stay?"

"If you leave, you could get lost or hurt, and I —" Tony clears his throat roughly. He twists his hands in his lap. "—and I'll have to mount a search and rescue operation to try and find you, and that will put more lives at risk." 

The words tumble from Tony's lips in a jumble, and Bucky has the sense they're hiding what Tony really wants to say. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on his part. Suddenly, Bucky finds himself wanting Tony to admit he wants him to stay, to _ask_ him to stay for _him_. But it's a selfish desire, wanting to be wanted but needing to leave. "I'll sign a waiver releasing you from any obligation to come looking for me once I'm gone. You'll never have to think of me again."

"Yeah, that's not going to happen," Tony mumbles before heaving a sigh.

Bucky lets his hand rest on Tony's for a moment, soaking in the heat until his own hand warms enough that he almost remembers the feeling of blood pounding through his veins... of being human. Standing abruptly, Bucky takes two steps toward the cell door, pausing only when Tony jolts to his feet, darts in front of him, and places a restraining hand on his arm. "Wait! What if... what if I wanted you to stay for, uh, entirely unofficial reasons?"

Bucky freezes, the galloping beat of Tony's heart echoing in his ears. " _Is_ that what you want?"

"Look, today was... I don't even know. I thought that maybe... but it wasn't... and you make me feel —" Tony breaks off, shaking his head, letting his gaze fall to his feet. He blows out a low breath before he drags his eyes back up to Bucky's. "I _want_ you to stay. I want you to _want_ to stay… with _me_ ." Tony moves closer, reaching up to run a thumb over Bucky's jaw. "And more than anything, what I want right now, is _you_." Tony pushes up on his toes, lifting just enough to capture Bucky's lips, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling down. 

Bucky stands still as Tony presses closer, rocking his hips forward, moaning into his mouth. Bucky tightens his fists by his side, fighting the urge to grab Tony's ass and hoist him up, lock his legs around his waist and push him back against the bars — to devour his body if not his blood. 

He fights the swell of arousal, straining to keep his fangs retracted, cursing the intrinsic link between mating and feeding hardwired into his cursed DNA. 

He groans as Tony licks into his mouth, but jerks back, breaking the embrace as Tony's tongue slices clean across a sharp peak, spilling blood into his mouth. Bucky staggers back, running his tongue over the line of his teeth, scraping the bitter taste away. He wipes the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his lips and pushes the blood from his mouth. 

Tony is running the tip of his tongue over the roof of his mouth, wincing. "Ow, fuck. Sorry, I don't know how I managed that."

Bile climbs up Bucky's throat as he stares at Tony in horror. _This changes everything._ "The day you were attacked by the wolves, you were bitten, weren't you?"

"Oh, yeah. It's no big deal," Tony mutters distractedly. "It's healing fine; it doesn't even hurt."

Bucky's mind races. Pulling together a new plan under stress without thinking it through is a recipe for disaster, but he has no other choice. "I think I'll take you up on your offer," he draws out slowly. "If it still stands?"

Tony brightens visibly, flashing a pink-tinged smile. "Absolutely. You can have a shower and freshen up, and then you can finally give me a list of foods that can go in that temple of yours. I'm sure I have something at home that qualifies as healthy." 

Tony threads warm fingers between cool, and Bucky lets himself be tugged toward the station door. So much for best-laid plans.

The taste of Tony's blood lingers on his tongue. Bitter; the taste of Lycan blood. _Tony is infected_. Bucky fight backs the urge to put his fist through the door of the station as Tony pulls it closed behind them. 

The moon is bright even through the swirling clouds of white as they step outside, and it shines down on Bucky, mockingly. He should have noticed; Tony's odd behavior, the pain, the flushed skin, the increased libido — all signs of wolf sickness. Bucky has been so caught up in his fascination with Tony, and his need to protect him, he had missed the biggest threat of them all. 

A tremor shoots down Bucky's spine. Slowly but surely, Tony's body is succumbing to wolf fever. And soon, when the full moon rises, the transformation will be complete.

When the full moon rises, Tony Stark will become a Lycan. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ For Tony Stark Bingo 2020 [Card:3034] R4 Kink: Dirty Talk
> 
> i. Many thanks to Ashes0909 for Coyotes!

“ _Fuck_ .” The resigned huff leaves Tony’s lungs and fogs the cold night air as he pinches the bridge of his nose and wills the fog _inside_ his head to clear. Forethought had obviously become the latest casualty of his current condition — buried right alongside his sense of shame in a shallow grave. 

Plastering an apologetic smile over his lips, he turns to Bucky. “Would it be a good or bad time to tell you that the offer of free lodgings now comes with an unexpected moonlit stroll _to_ said lodgings?”

Tony’s gut twists, realizing how this must look to Bucky — first kissing him in his cell, and now forcing him on a could-be-viewed-as romantic walk home. _Home_ , where there are beds and privacy. Not that he expects Bucky to still be interested after he'd just bled into his mouth. Which, fuck, that's got to be in his all time greatest hits of humiliation. Still, the romantic walk reeks of a B grade romantic comedy or a C grade porn flick. He grimaces. “It’s just, well, when I loaned Steve my truck to get back to his place, I wasn’t really thinking about us getting back to mine,” he continues in a rush. “It’s not far, literally five minutes in a general that way direction.” He jerks his head to the right of the station.

Whatever thoughts go through Buckys’ mind at the new information make no impact on his face — remaining impassive as he scans the darkness around them. “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine. But we should get going before the wind picks back up.” He wraps an arm around Tony’s waist and urges him forward, down the steps.

The night is quiet but for the sound of fresh snow crunching underfoot and the erratic thumping of Tony’s racing heart as Bucky guides him forward with long strides that have him hustling to keep pace, the moonlight stroll becoming a moonlight dash. 

It’s a beautiful night — the moon, almost full now, winks in and out of view behind shifting clouds, and the steady curtain of white falling around them dances into sharp focus under the soft halo of the street lamps — but it can't hold a candle to the man pressed up against him.

Bucky’s pale, flawless skin is luminous in the moonlight, and the way the small flakes cling to his dark hair and long lashes make Tony’s knees tremble and his heart constrict alarmingly. Bucky looks otherworldly, an exquisite marble statue of an ancient god brought to life. 

_Want_ punches him in the gut so hard his lungs constrict in his chest, forcing out his breath in a harsh puff of white as heat flares inside him. He’s suddenly grateful everyone else has the good sense to be bundled up indoors, out of the weather; the empty streets won’t judge him if he swoons before he makes it home. 

Or, if he just plain passes out from being wholly spent rather than smitten.

His lungs burn as his legs churn, trying to match Bucky’s strides, the strong arm around his back driving him ever forward. Snow breaks around Bucky’s legs easily, like waves crashing on the shore, but Tony’s aching body is heavy and clumsy with fatigue, hemorrhaging energy with every step until finally, exhaustion brings him to a standstill. “Sorry,” he pants as Bucky freezes beside him, “I just need a minute.”

Bending, Tony presses his hands to his thighs, and ducks his head down to suck in ragged gasps of cold air that lodge in his lungs like frozen needles. Embarrassment burns at his cheeks uselessly — he’s pretty sure his already flushed skin can’t hold any more heat without actually combusting.

From his peripheral vision, Tony watches Bucky sink to a squat gracefully, cocking his head to the side, now at Tony’s eye line. “You alright?” 

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine, I’m just...” Tony’s eyes drift from the perfect face in front of him to the storefront behind. The dimmed lights of the town bakery-cum-cafe glow softly, _mockingly,_ and Tony’s jaw goes slack. Well, shit. Life is a bizarre thing. This morning, he had been planning a date with Steve, a picnic with muffins from that very bakery, and tonight he’s on his way home with Bucky. Tony hadn’t spent time with two guys, in that way, in one day, ever. His apple always landed right beside the quality over quantity tree, but that is of little help to him now. He'd been rendered powerless against the pull of Steve Rogers every bit as much as Bucky Barnes, even though the two couldn’t be more different. Day and night, fire and ice, the only commonality between them is the identical, uncontrollable flames of lust they stir in him, flames that will consume him if he's not careful.

The memory of Steve's mouth on him makes him whimper, and he tries to cover with a cough. It’s an effort to fight the pull of gravity, to rise back to standing, when all he wants to do is to flop down into the snow, to let it extinguish the embers spreading through his body as desire uses his every fiber for kindling. “I’m fine. It’s just been a really, really long day, and my spoons became forks somewhere about mid-morning.” 

After a quizzical head tilt that should not be that adorable on a grown man, Bucky matches his movements, straightening before twisting to scan their surroundings once more. Light gray eyes dart around the empty street like he’s searching for something… or someone. Though Tony’s breaths are coming easier now, it still takes his spinning, oxygen-deprived head a moment longer than he’d like to put two and two together. 

“It’s okay. You can relax. I don’t think he’s in any rush for round two. In fact, with the condition you left him in, unless he found immediate and intensive medical attention, I very much doubt Rumlow will be a problem to anyone ever again.”

A gasp shocks from Tony’s throat as large hands clamp over his shoulders and spin him as Bucky steps forward, bringing them a whisper apart. “What did you say?”

Darkness rolls off Bucky, twisted and bitter, slamming into Tony like a physical wall. He wilts under the intense stare, but is unable to tear his gaze from the fury flashing through the silver depths. “I— uh, it’s fine, Bucky. It was clearly self-defense, I wasn’t—”

“His _name.”_

“Ah, Rumlow? Brock Rumlow.”

“Any relation to Branson Rumlow?” Bucky spits the name like it tastes foul on his tongue.

“Sorry I don’t know. I’ve only met him once before, at Ste — uh, at the Rogers’ residence.” Tony reaches toward his throat without thinking but catches himself, balling his hands into fists and lowering them to his sides. “I can call Clint and ask if it’s important? They have history, he may know.” 

A low growl rumbles from Bucky’s chest, the only answer before he lifts his hands from Tony’s shoulders and swivels on the spot, neck whipping side to side, scouring the streets… searching… _hunting_.

“Bucky?” Tony hates the hesitation lacing his voice, but uncertainty threads through him, curling down his spine. He’s never seen Bucky like this… distressed, agitated, so keyed up it’s like his skin is the only thing keeping him from vibrating out of existence.

Gray eyes flash dangerously as Bucky turns back to Tony even as he takes a step away, increasing the distance between them, his face bleeding emotion — a war of unspoken thoughts pulling at the corners of his mouth and creasing that flawless skin. He looks torn, a human rope in a game of tug-of-war, and Tony can feel the divided desire raging inside him: stay here or go looking for Rumlow. 

“You can go after him if you need to,” Tony says flatly, resignation weighing down every word. “You are a free man again, after all.” He gives a wan smile, ignoring the twinging in his gut at the thought of Bucky leaving. It’s irrational and foolish.. and completely overwhelming. But he understands, more than most, what it is to need to put lingering ghosts to rest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky says grimly, striding back to Tony. He snakes an arm around Tony’s waist again and tucks him a little tighter against his side. “But we need to get to your place _now_.”

The sudden lightness in Tony’s chest doesn’t filter down to his leaden legs, and he stumbles on his second step, lurching forward, only Bucky's support stops him from falling face-first into the snow.

Bucky surveys the street once more before frowning down at Tony. “New plan.” In one fluid motion, Bucky bends and slides his arms under Tony’s thighs and around his back, and lifts him off his feet. The squeak that escapes Tony’s throat is lost to the wind, disappearing behind them as Bucky’s legs make quick work of their journey, cutting through the snow easily despite the extra weight. 

Tony knows he should say something, should flail and make a fuss, demand Bucky put him down. Instead, he wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck and brings his chest flush against the much harder one, erasing what little space exists between them. He presses his teeth to his lip, a foil to the moan rasping up his throat, and tries valiantly to stop from wriggling down in the tight hold, wanting to feel that strong hand slide over his ass. The heaviness of his body dulls, his focus shifting to the new throbbing ache that grows with each powerful step. 

“Which is your house?” 

"Red door," Tony chokes out thickly. The feel of Bucky’s body moving against his is delicious torture, a promise and a tease. He eyes the thick tendon twisting up Bucky’s neck, pushing out against pale skin, and Tony’s overcome by the irrational, overwhelming desire to run his nose over the thick line, take his fill of Bucky’s scent before tracing it with his tongue. He snaps his mouth closed and jerks his head down, tucking his chin to his chest, but he can’t stop the whimper seeping through his throat.

“Keys.”

“It— it’s unlocked.” 

Tony ignores the thrill of loss as Bucky lifts the hand from his back. A heartbeat later, the door is swinging open, and they’re moving inside so fast Tony’s squeezing his eyes shut against the blur of the room, fighting the rolling of his stomach. He hears Bucky kick the door closed, and then he’s being lowered, gently to the floor. Strong hands remain around his waist, holding his weight, somehow knowing Tony’s knees are not up to the task.

He drags his eyes open to find Bucky’s face inches from his, pressing into his space, and for one incredible, heart-stopping moment, he thinks Bucky is going to kiss him. A large hand lifts from his waist and moves toward his face, and Tony lets his lashes flutter closed again. Anticipation shivers over his skin, and he holds his breath and waits...

The loud _clunk_ of the deadbolt sliding home and locking in place beside his ear startles his eyes open. 

Bucky is so close Tony can see the blue flecks have disappeared from his eyes, leaving just a ring of glimmering silver ringing dark, wide pupils.

“Shower,” Tony croaks.

Confusion knits Bucky’s brows together, but he doesn’t edge out of Tony’s space. “What?”

“I promised you a shower. It’s upstairs, in a room, you can’t miss it. There are fresh towels on the rack, and you’re free to take anything you can find in my wardrobe that you think will fit you.”

“I think the shower can wait, Tony.” A muscle jumps over Bucky’s jaw, and Tony barely resists the urge to reach out and taste it.

“Ah, no, it really can’t. Look, at the risk of sounding, well, desperate, I’m going to need a minute to collect myself, so I don’t beg you to carry me upstairs with you and see how filthy we can get in that shower before we’re clean. So, if you could just…” Tony jerks his head toward the stairs. “Please.”

Tony’s heart hammers painfully under his ribs as dark eyes drop to his lips and Bucky’s tongue darts out to moisten his own. A hint of white glints behind the pink as Bucky’s lips curl up, and a shiver trembles through Tony, the hairs on his arms arcing up. Lust-dark eyes flick back to his, piercing, _knowing,_ and Tony is laid bare, exposed, vulnerable… prey in sight of a starving predator. But that razor-sharp jaw clenches tight as Bucky takes a step back, his head jerking in a sharp nod before he turns on his heel and disappears up the stairs. Tony can’t hear the retreating footsteps over the pounding of his heart as he staggers stiffly to the couch.

Tony doesn’t even try to stop the groan as he flops down onto the three-seater. He really might be losing his mind. He has narrowed down the possibilities for the sudden, intense increase in his sex drive and utter lack of impulse control to two options: one, a side effect of the cocktail of chemicals that Bruce had injected him with after the wolf attack, or, two, a result of his touch-starved body being in much-too-close proximity to two of the hottest men he’s ever seen in his life —porn included— and his body has broken down to his basal instincts. In either case, his body has staged a coup, and his brain is no longer in charge. 

But knowing _the why_ doesn’t do jack shit about _the how_. As in, how the fuck is he supposed to function if every suggestive comment, look, or touch has him ready to mount the nearest warm — or in Bucky’s case, cool — body? Tony lets out a frustrated growl and lunges forward to grab the bottle of scotch winking seductively at him from the coffee table in front of the couch. Snagging a glass, he pours himself a less-than-healthy dose before doing the same to the second glass and setting it aside for Bucky.

Bucky, who is right at this very moment, upstairs in his shower, naked and wet.

Tony resolutely ignores the insistent throbbing of his cock as he leans back on the couch, spreading his legs to give his brain the illusion of relief, before lifting the glass to his lips and taking a long swallow. 

Now that he has Bucky _here_ , Tony isn’t quite sure what to do with him. He knows what he’d _like_ to do to him, or, more to the point, have Bucky do to him, but beyond that, there is just a slightly fuzzy sense of panic blurring the edges of his brain. He’s never brought anyone home before.

Tony scrapes his nails over the worn leather of the lounge chair distractedly. Though nowhere near playboy status, he has had his fair share of causal hook-ups, but they were always elsewhere — another house, a hotel… a bar bathroom. Home is too close, too intimate. _Too messy._ It invites impossible thoughts, the possibility of a future, and that’s the one thing Tony _can’t_ offer anyone, not while some small part of him remains languishing in the past.

...And yet, he’d brought Bucky home nevertheless.

His head fogs again, filling, swirling with confusion that builds and _builds_ , expanding outward, pressing against the inside of his skull until he wants to scream.

By his own history, he should forget Steve. One and done, that's the rule. But after spilling down Steve's throat, and even the rejected reciprocation, Tony _still_ wants him. Just as he had wanted to beg Bucky to fuck him hard and rough against the shower wall before dragging Bucky to his bed to spend the night soaking the sheets with sweat and more. _More._ That's what he wants, what he craves from Steve, from Bucky, from them both. What does that say about him? And what the fuck does it say about him that he'd say yes to both, together, at the same time if given a chance. And _oh_ , Tony's cock jerks at the thought.

The seat shifts, dipping as Bucky sinks down beside him, the motion pulling him up from his reverie with a start. Tony’s eyes rake over Bucky, his mouth going dry as he throbs wetly. Bucky should never wear _anything_ but Tony’s clothes, ever again. Tony’s lips are tingling, burning, and he scrapes his tongue over them, hungrily. The way his much too small shirt is straining over Bucky’s expansive chest and impressive arms is a sight to behold, but it pales in comparison to his pants. Tony lifts the forgotten glass to his lips and upends it, swallowing down the liquor in a rush as his eyes trace his own pants clinging to Bucky’s body like a second skin, with _everything_ on display.

Cold glass holds its own under the strangled grasp of his fingers as he squeezes, grounding himself, needing some distraction to keep him from climbing onto Bucky’s lap and rocking against those pants until the tight fabric distorts further, driving up under him, and the trapped hardness beneath is begging for release.

“Your water pressure is amazing.”

Your _everything_ is amazing. Tony clamps his lips together, struggling to get himself under control. He lurches forward, biting back a curse at the taut fabric cutting into him, and refills his glass before lifting the second and offering it to Bucky. He settles back onto the plush cushion and crosses his legs as discreetly as he’s able, taking a steadying breath. “Yeah, it’s my second favorite thing in this place.”

Bucky eyes the glass in his hand but doesn’t take a drink. “What’s the first?”

“ _You_ ,” Tony murmurs under his breath before clearing his throat. “I, uh, the garage. I have it set up as a sort of mini-workshop. I like to tinker with things, and it helps pass the downtime, of which we have a lot of out here.” He eyes Bucky and frowns. “Usually, anyway. As it turns out, it’s going to come in handy, because that cell is going to take some fixing. In the chaos of this afternoon, I didn’t get a chance to ask, what the hell happened?” 

The tension coiling through Bucky’s muscles betrays his would-be casual shrug. “Questionable quality; the lock gave out pretty easily.”

Tony hums thoughtfully. No matter how he turns it in his mind, he can’t find a way that the cell door ended up embedded in the log cabin wall. Clint hadn’t been able to offer up a relay of events — after he’d taken a knee to the face, it was lights out. Maybe it had been a ‘lifting a car off a loved one’ type scenario that no one can make sense of later. That's a thing, right? He’d heard the tales of little, old grandmas lifting cars off their grandchildren, and Bucky was certainly not old nor little by any stretch of the imagination. Or maybe the lock _had_ been rusty or weak. He’d never really had the occasion to test it out, and it didn’t get much use or maintenance. Tony sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. Maybe things aren’t always black and white, but he’s starting to get awfully sick of living his life in fifty shades of _maybe._

Bucky’s voice, low and soft, drags him out of his frustrated contemplation, though the actual words elude him. “Hmm, sorry, what was that?”

“I asked if you believe in fate?” 

Surprise tugs Tony’s brows up before he draws them back down, resetting his face into a carefully passive expression. Given how hard it’s been to wrangle any information from Bucky, it’s not exactly the small talk he’d been expecting, and it’s not the subject he would have chosen if given the option.

Tony turns his glass around his hand, watching the light catch and dance over the amber fluid within. A familiar hardness grows in his chest, like armor plates sliding into place, shuttering his heart closed. When he was a child, he had wasted too much energy and too many tears thinking about fate. Because if it was real, what had he done to deserve the cards life had dealt him? Why would destiny’s deck have been stacked against him from the outset? No, better to accept that there’s no cosmic plan, shit just happens, and you try and survive it the best you’re able. 

“I believe life is hard. It knocks you down repeatedly, and you have to drag yourself to your feet over and over again. I think putting the blame in _fate’s_ hands, or saying something is destined to be gives people an out, like life’s happening _to_ them. It’s the difference between giving up control or taking responsibility, and people will always gravitate to the former when presented with the opportunity. But me? No, I don’t. I think the only real forces at work are choices, consequences, and luck — both good and bad.” 

The corner of Bucky’s lip twitches up. “So, what you’re saying is, you haven’t given it much thought.”

The tension thrumming through Tony’s body breaks on a snort of laughter. “Touché. I’m guessing this is the part of the conversation where you try and change my mind?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You look like a pro-fate kind of guy.”

Tony follows the slow glide of Bucky’s finger as it circles the top of his glass, _round and round and round_ , startling when the movement stops abruptly, and Bucky leans forward to discard the still-full glass on the coffee table. 

“I don’t think you’re wrong, not entirely. But, don’t you think there are some things in life, that the odds of them happening are… _improbable,_ to say the least, if there’s nothing but sheer, dumb luck at play?” 

“So what you’re saying is that you _are_ a pro-fate kind of guy.” Tony shoots back with a smirk.

Bucky’s lips flash up, but there’s a consideration to his gaze as if he’s weighing up just how much to share in the face of Tony’s teasing. “A long time ago, I had occasion to ponder destiny. I came to think of fate less like a blueprint, and more like… a constellation. A cluster of important events in your life that are predestined, but the path to each is non-linear and unwritten.” Bucky’s gaze drops to Tony’s chest, his brows tugging together. “The events of the past few days haven’t done anything to challenge that belief. In fact, they’ve done nothing but strengthen it.”

Tony’s pants drag over the worn fabric of the couch as he pulls his legs up, tucks his feet under them, and settles cross-legged facing Bucky. He pointedly ignores the way his knees press gently against Bucky’s outer thigh. “But if the events are inevitable, why does it matter the path you take to get to them? The outcome will always be the same.”

The fragrance of Tony’s shampoo, grapefruit and mint, sweetens the air between them as Bucky shakes his head and dark locks dance over his shoulders. “The _moments_ are written but not the _outcome_. You may be destined to meet someone, but whether you end up as friends or lovers,” —a tremor runs down Tony’s spine at the way the word rolls off Bucky’s tongue— “is down to your choices.” Bucky’s gaze flicks back to the center of Tony’s chest. “The car accident when you were younger… I think it was always going to happen; the only variable was whether it killed your parents, or you, or the creature your father swerved to miss.” 

The mention of the accident sends a shock of ice through Tony’s veins. “I don’t know if that’s—” He breaks off, crushing anxiety already building in the back of his mind. He raises a shoulder slowly, carefully: he doesn’t want to be dismissive of Bucky’s beliefs, but his opinions had been cemented by _his_ experiences early on. “That sounds nice, that people are brought into your life for a reason. But if that’s true, sometimes you don’t end up as friends or lovers. Sometimes the only reason you meet someone is for you to learn how to survive them. That doesn’t seem very fate-worthy to me. Surely destiny has better things to do than to deal out heartache and misery.”

“Maybe. But if we are the sum of our experiences, would you still be you without having survived them?”

“Arguably, I’d be a better version of me.” Tony smiles wryly, then sobers. He picks at a loose thread of his pants distractedly. He can feel his mind sinking like an anchor into the past, down into the deep, murky waters that are always there, creeping higher, threatening to drown him. 

“When my parents died, I did, too. Not figuratively, _literally —_ I was dead on the operating table for six minutes. I bled out when they took the metal from my chest. It took god knows how many transfusions to keep me alive, and for what? You think fate made me survive all of that so I could be an orphan with no family, taken away from the only home I’ve ever known? To be forced to survive thirteen years of hell, to be raised by some asshole who professed to love my father like a brother, but took the greatest joy in breaking me down, body and soul, just because he could? No. There was no grand plan in that, Bucky, only choice. _His_ choice to treat me like that, and _mine_ to leave the day I turned eighteen and never look back. Life is hard, I know. The cost of living is a pound of flesh, and I have paid mine many times over, but I don’t think I’m wrapped in invisible strings, dancing to the tune of some unseen, omnipotent force. Things do not happen for a reason, they just happen.”

Bucky’s face pinches tighter with each new word that tumbles from Tony’s lips, until there’s so much anguish on his face that Tony wants to push down his own horrors, lean forward and caress Bucky’s face, to smooth the hard lines marring his beautiful skin. 

“Tony, there something I need to—” 

Scraping, the sound of claws on wood, reaches Tony’s ears just as Bucky disappears from the couch, going from sitting to standing so quickly that Tony has to blink rapidly to refocus his eyes. “Whoa, easy, cowboy, it’s probably just a squirrel.”

Tension radiates off Bucky’s body so intensely, the hairs on the back of Tony’s neck stand on end, his body drawing tight, absorbing the waves of energy volting from Bucky. Narrowed gray eyes remain trained on the front door. “It’s not a squirrel.”

“Right. Well, whatever it is, it’s outside, and we’re inside, so it's all good.” 

“I’m going to check it out.” Bucky’s body is moving before the words are out of his mouth.

Tony finishes the liquor left in his glass before discarding it on the table beside Bucky’s and pushes to his feet with a groan. He trips over his feet in an effort to reach Bucky, narrowly righting himself before he goes sprawling to the ground, and slips between the solid wall of muscled chest and the front door just as Bucky slides the bolt free.

“Hey, no. This is _my_ house, and you’re my guest. If anyone is checking out mysterious noises in the dead of night, it’ll be me.”

“Tony, let me—”

A crash outside makes Tony jump, his head jerking back and connecting with the heavy wooden door. “Jesus, _fuck._ ” He sighs. Perfect. Another ache to add to his already impressive laundry list. “Okay, fine. I am going to go check, but you can come with me… for backup. Word of warning, though, if it’s a sleepwalking bear, I’m going to hightail it back to the house, and I am not waiting for you, so I suggest you do the same and try not to get eaten.” 

Tony flashes a grin and reaches for the door handle. He knows it’s not a bear; it probably _is_ a squirrel, or maybe a wolf. His hand trembles as he opens the door and steps outside — after his last encounter, he might actually prefer the bear. 

The cold night air gusts over his warm skin for a single heartbeat before it’s blocked as Bucky steps in front of him. Reaching back, Bucky keeps him at arm’s length as he stalks slowly forward, away from the safety of the house. Not that it’s _not_ safe outside… hopefully. Tony cranes his neck, stretching to see around the sizeable Bucky-shaped shield in front of him. The wind lifts Bucky’s hair, whipping it around his head like a dark, sweet-scented halo, and Tony drags his eyes from the dancing strands to seek out signs of the disturbance.

But the yard in front of the house and the street beyond appears empty, and Tony squints against the wind, to the barren branches bending and scraping against the house siding. 

“It was probably just the wind,” Tony calls, taking a few steps away from Bucky, gesturing to the gnarled branches reaching out to scratch at his bedroom window “There’s nothing to be—”

A flash of fur from the corner of his eye steals his attention and pushes his heart into his throat, fear prickling over his skin — the _wolves._ Tony makes a move to run to Bucky, panic overriding bravado, but before his foot has even lifted, somehow, Bucky is already in front of him, curling an arm back, gripping Tony’s hip and pulling him flush, chest to back. 

Golden eyes stare out from the shadows by the house, just beyond the reach of the streetlight. Tony’s heart pounds, pushing sweat through his skin that cools uncomfortably in the frigid air, and he grips Bucky’s waist with trembling hands. It takes a moment to realize the low vibrations rumbling through him are coming from Bucky — a deep growl pushing from his chest and feeding back into Tony’s. 

Three high pitch _yips_ sound from the darkness before a streak of light-colored fur bolts from the house. 

Tony sags against Bucky, shivering as relief floods through him. Just a coyote, no wolves, everything's fine.

Bucky's arm wraps around him again, and Tony shivers once more, this time for the realization of just how quickly the solid weight of Bucky pressing against him has become a familiar, reassuring balm to his mind and body. He trudges through the snow, Bucky guiding him silently, slowly, carefully this time, back to the house.  
  
The sound of Bucky sliding the deadbolt back in place shocks through Tony's nerves like a shot, but then large hands are rubbing over his shivering arms, and concerned grey eyes are searching his. "Are you alright?"

“Never better,” Tony lies through his teeth. “I told you it was nothing. Just a coyote looking for dinner.” He shrugs off the concerned hands and walks to the kitchen on his own steam, barely, before leaning back against the center island. He folds his arms across his chest to hide his still-quivering hands. Apparently, the wolf incident had affected him more than he realized. How can he be traumatized by something he doesn’t remember? Maybe he doesn’t remember because he’s traumatized? Tony sighs and rolls his aching shoulders. There he goes with those _maybes_ again.

“And, speaking of dinner,” Tony starts with an energy he doesn’t feel, “I remember promising you dinner and a shower, so I’ve still got half my obligations to meet.” He strides to the refrigerator on only-slightly wobbly legs and pulls it open to peer inside. “Ah, I may have oversold the healthy thing,” he calls, head inside the cold interior. “I don’t suppose you’ll eat tiramisu or week-old lasagna leftovers,” he pauses, eyeing the pasta suspiciously before sniffing it and wincing. “No, scratch the leftovers.” He straightens and shuts the fridge door. “Sorry, I swear it wasn’t an empty promise to get you over here. It’s just, between the concussion and chasing psychopaths, I kind of blanked on the whole grocery shopping thing.”

Bucky leans against the island, eyes fixed on Tony. “It’s fine. I’m not hungry, but thank you.”

“You haven’t eaten in days. I’m surprised you’re still standing.” Tony shakes his head, rejecting Bucky’s dismissal. “You know, I make a mean hangover eggs, and I always have the ingredients for those.”

“Hangover eggs?”

“Yeah. It can pass for dinner in a pinch, and is mostly healthy if I cut back on the butter and salt and leave out the vodka. So, like.. Just eggs.”

The stream of laughter that spills from Bucky's lips is molten and dense and rolls down Tony’s spine like warm honey. He stumbles forward to lean heavily on the weathered wood countertop as his knees go soft, grateful for the support of the island rising between them. 

Bucky’s eyes catch and reflect the kitchen light, twinkling knowingly as his gaze drops to the telltale flush creeping up Tony’s neck. 

“You should do that more often,” Tony breathes softly when he finally finds his voice. 

“Do what?”

“Laugh. It’s a _very_ good look on you.”

Bucky hums and stares at Tony for a long moment before finally nodding to the fridge. “What are you having?”

Though Tony’s coming to expect his body’s reactions, it doesn’t make shaking them off any easier. Rolling his shoulders, squeezing them back before stretching his neck to the left, he tries to shift his focus from one ache to another, one more acceptable for polite company. As if triggered by thought alone, pain shoots up his neck and into his head and he bites back the less fun kind of groan. “Tonight definitely calls for a liquid dinner,” he nods toward the bottle of amber fluid, half-empty, on the counter between them, “with a side of Tylenol, Advil, and possibly Nyquil.” 

“You're getting worse."

“It gets worse before it’s better, isn’t that what they say? I don’t exactly know who _they_ are, but if they’re right, I should be absolutely smashing tomorrow.” Because he's pretty fucking sure it can't get any _worse_ without killing him.

Bucky moves with a silent grace that should be unsettling for a man of his size, but Tony can’t help but marvel at the hard curve of his muscles moving beneath too-tight fabric as he rounds the island and brushes past him. Tony starts to spin to follow Bucky’s path, but that broad chest is bumping up behind him as hands settle on his shoulders and begin kneading the tight muscles.

“Oh, okay, yeah, that’s…” Tony stammers, his cock twitching with new interest immediately at the contact. 

Bucky’s hands are amazing, so large and strong and cool against his flushed skin, working to dissolve the tension from his body, even as Tony’s every nerve ending flares to life, lighting up like fireworks bursting under his skin. 

“Uh...oh, never… stop… doing that,” Tony sighs, melting back against Bucky. He shifts slightly, pressing back against the solid body behind him as Bucky’s thumbs move up to massage small, firm circles into the corded muscles in his neck. A whimper breaks over his lips as the hard swell of Bucky’s arousal rubs against his ass. “Jesus, Barnes, is there any part of you that isn’t hard?” Tony can’t stop his hips from grinding back, Bucky’s desire straining against him, increasing his own. “Not that I’m complaining in the least.”

A whine slips from his throat as Bucky’s hands lift from his neck and grip his hips. Tony rocks back against the hold, but the strong hands keep him in place with ease. Frustration shoots through him and he pushes it out on a groan. “Seriously? I can feel you straining the fabric of my jeans, Bucky. I bet you’re making just as much mess in my pants as I am, but fuck, I’d rather you make a mess of me.”

“ _Tony_ …” Bucky’s sharp exhale glides over Tony’s ear, raising goosebumps along his nape and spiraling straight down to his cock. He scrambles to clamp his hands over Bucky’s at his waist, dragging his nails over the cool skin. The low noise Bucky makes in response sends a whole-body shiver trembling through him.

“You know, I’ve never really understood the appeal of kitchen islands,” Tony murmurs. “They always seemed impractical; a random bench in the middle of a room, you know? But now, all I can think about is how I want you to bend me over, push me down and fuck me until I come all over it.”

“ _Jesus_ , Tony.” Bucky’s voice is a growl, deep, dark gravel, scraping over Tony’s skin as strong fingers dig deeper into Tony’s hips, pulling a desperate moan from his chest.

“That’s the idea,” Tony pants, desperately trying to break Bucky’s hold, to rock back, needing to move, needing friction, _needing Bucky._ “If you want me to beg, you just have to say the word, and I’ll be on my knees for you in a heartbeat.”

What little breath is in Tony’s lungs is pushed free in a harsh huff as Bucky cants him forward against the island, trapping his cock against the hard wood. A sharp corner of a drawer handle stabs at him, the pain only serving to notch the pleasure fizzing through his body even higher. He’d been hard and aching and leaking for hours, been _wanting_ for hours, and the sudden promise of satisfaction slices through him, leaving him breathless, out of control, teetering on the razor-sharp edge of bliss already.

Bucky’s leg sweeps between Tony’s, a heavy boot knocking against his, kicking them apart, forcing his thighs to spread. His knees tremble before a heavy hand lands between his shoulder blades, forcing him down until his chest meets wood with a thump and a grunt. The slow drag of fingers raking down his spine and curving over his ass makes him gasp, a harsh, shuddering breath that pushes out on a moan as those fingers clench, trapping the soft flesh of his ass between them, the squeezing pressure just a whisper the wrong side of pain.

“Oh, shit.” Tony whimpers as the impressive length of Bucky’s trapped cock grinds against his ass, hard and rough. He turns his head, scrubbing his cheek against the counter, his open mouth leaving a wet trail, shining on the dark wood. His frantic fingers curl into fists around the short strands of his hair, tugging harshly, shards of pain biting through the rolling pleasure, needing a distraction, a reprieve from the aching pressure, the burning pleasure building, building, _building_ in his gut as Bucky starts rutting against him.

“The scent of you, of your arousal, has been driving me mad all day,” Bucky grunts, forcing a hand between Tony’s fabric-trapped cock and wood and squeezes roughly. “And now you’re here, offering yourself up to me, you think I have strength enough to say no? When I can hear your heart pounding, knowing you want me?"

“I, ahh, _please,_ oh, god.” Tony’s hips stutter, trapped between Bucky’s hand and cock, moaning, pulsing wetly in his pants. His face slides through the slick trail of his spit as he jerks on the counter, grappling at Bucky’s body, trying to pull him closer, needing _more.  
  
_"When I can smell you leaking for me," Bucky purrs, his fingers tracing the shape of Tony before squeezing, kneading, gripping him through the wet fabric, "knowing you need me to make you come?”  
  
“Oh, fuck, oh god, _Bucky!_ ” His orgasm crashes through him violently, tearing, ripping pleasure so intense the world flares bright behind his squeezed lids, spiraling out from his jerking, pulsing cock shuddering up to his spinning head and down to his straining toes, curling in his boots. Bucky ruts him through it, the unbreakable weight holding him down until his body goes limp but for the trembling aftershocks of pleasure sparking through him. 

Tony lies panting on the island, hazy awareness of the weight lifting off him sliding through his mind as his shaky legs buckle entirely, and he starts to slide off the wood. He’s falling in slow motion, dropping through molasses, but then the world spins and falls as he lifts, locked in Bucky’s arms, floating. 

After a moment, Tony’s sluggish mind registers the exchange of hard body for a familiar softness as Bucky sets him down gently on his bed. He drags his eyes open and reaches for Bucky’s hand, tugging him forward as he goes to turn away. “Where d’you think you’re goin’? ‘Tis my turn,” Tony slurs, exhaustion eating up the edges of his words. He reaches clumsy fingers toward the straining zip of Bucky’s jeans. 

Bucky leans over him, a dark curtain falling either side of his face, tickling Tony’s skin as Bucky brushes their lips together, softly, and so sweetly it makes Tony’s chest ache. 

“Sleep, Tony.”

“But you’re—”

“I’m fine. I’ll be here when you wake up. Get some rest; you’re going to need it.”

“Mmm, promises, promises,” Tony whispers before sleep’s tendrils ensnare him completely and drag him down.

. . .

Moonlight streams through the window, dancing over Bucky’s skin, caressing it, making it glow even as Tony scratches at it desperately, his nails clawing at Bucky’s chest as he rocks forward on thick thighs, feeling Bucky’s cock shifting inside him with every frantic movement. 

“Yeah, Tony, love riding my cock, don’t ya, sweetheart?”

“Oh, fuck, I’m so close,” Tony grunts, raking his nails over Bucky’s nipple, smirking at the sharp intake of breath as it swells the chiseled chest beneath him. His legs ache, trembling with the effort of pushing up, driving forward, working himself on Bucky. His heart is pounding in his throat, making his ears ring, hum, and... buzz. 

The buzzing increases, filling his head, a swarm of angry bees, and Tony startles at the blur of motion in his peripheral vision. He lifts an arm, swiping through the air, flailing at the small black and yellow creatures flitting through the air, darting at him, their fuzzy little bodies swarming his face, landing on his cheek... 

The sharp sting of his palm striking his face jolts Tony awake. “Ow, fuck.” He blinks the world into focus, slowly, watching the numbers of his alarm clock glowing angrily at him as they tick over. The insects are gone, the buzzing permeating his sleep coming from his phone, the vibrations sending it scuttling across his bedside table like it’s possessed — or like it’s also pissed at being woken up at two-fucking-thirty in the morning.

He snatches it up and scowls at the cheery face of Bruce smiling back at him. His thumb hovers over the _reject_ option for just long enough to make himself feel a fraction better before taking the call.

“Jesus, Banner, if this isn’t a booty call, I’m hanging up.” 

“I — shit, Tony, I’m sorry. I thought you would be up.”

Tony eyes the sheet tented between his thighs, memories of his dream bursting in his mind before he flops back onto the bed and closes his eyes. “You’re half-right.” 

“Uh, okay? Look, I didn’t mean to wake you, but I wanted to let you know someone broke into the clinic.”

“And this meets ‘ _middle of the night emergency_ ’ requirements, how?” Tony sighs, scrubbing his hand over his closed eyes, feeling the grainy remnants of sleep grate at the back of his lids. “No, scratch that, the more pressing question is why the hell are you at the clinic at ass o’clock in the morning in the first place?” 

“I’m taking Maria to Baynton and needed supplies for the trip, just in case. But, when I got to the clinic, the door jam was busted, and a bunch of things were missing. I thought you should know.”

“Wait, roll that back a few frames. Why are you taking Hill on a three-hour jaunt before three in the morning? There’s a storm on the way, Bruce. Or, it could be here, I wouldn’t know, what with being asleep and all, but in any case, now is not the time for canoodling with a heavily pregnant woman.”

“Jesus, Tony. I’m not, we’re not—” Bruce huffs out an irritated breath. “She’s having contractions. They’re just Braxton Hicks, but she’s due next week, and I’m worried if we don’t leave now, we could be stuck here if the storm sets in. With her being a high-risk pregnancy… It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Well… yeah, I got nothing in the face of such sensible logic at three in the morning.” Tony sighs softly. “Swing by and pick me up in ten—”

“No, that’s the other reason I’m calling; we’re already on our way. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll have cell service, the storm is picking up, but I’ll send you updates when I can.”

“Well, thanks for the head’s up. You might wanna look into those impulse control issues there, doc. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow night, uh, well, I guess technically that would be tonight, I’m sending a search party — with balloons, cake, those annoying string popper things, the whole nine yards. And you know I don’t make empty threats.”

Bruce’s chuckle cuts out halfway through. “We’ll be fine. I’ll text you a list of the missing supplies.”

“Why? Do you want me to put out a BOLO on tongue depressors and Care Bear band-aids?” The frustrated sigh on the other end of the line is an oddly soothing lullaby, and Tony can’t fight the yawn as oblivion calls to him again. “Drive safe, Brucey,” he mumbles, sleepily. 

“‘Night, Tony. Go back to sleep; by all accounts you look like you need it.”

Tony clicks off the call without so much as a goodbye and tosses the phone back onto the bedside table. Why the hell does everyone keep harping on about him looking bad? Bucky didn’t seem to mind his _dark shadows under glassy eyes_ look. And neither did Steve. Tony groans, squeezes his eyes closed tighter still, and drags his body over the sleep-warmed sheets to flop face down onto his pillow, burying his cock’s interest into the mattress, exhaustion finally eclipsing desire. But the small victory is tarnished by the shades of bright blue and flashing silver that burn behind his eyelids as sleep claims him once more.


	10. Chapter 10

Steve ignores the icy winds whipping around him, chilling the sweat clinging to his body, and turns the shovel in his hand, unloading the last of the frozen earth over the shrouds, now buried six feet below. 

It had been a simple service, short though not exactly sweet, with no-one stepping up to offer a eulogy for the two men. It hadn't been entirely unexpected, given the few people Pierce and Malek _hadn't_ rubbed the wrong way had disappeared from the house not long after Ruby, Jasper, and Jack, leaving the pack down to seven.

Irrationally, Steve had half expected Rumlow to show up, itching for another fight, or wanting to take the bodies of his friends, and it hadn't been until there was only a small mound of dirt left to fill in, that the tension had finally eased from his shoulders. 

"They would have helped you with that if you'd asked."

Steve squints through the fog of white, toward the small group of figures retreating to the house, before turning his attention to Nat. "Yeah, I know; that's why I didn't ask." At Nat's raised eyebrow, Steve drives the shovel into the ground and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, frowning as dirt scrapes over his skin. "I needed some time to think."

"Sharing is caring."

Steve had already shared this afternoon's events with Nat, or the highlights, anyway. He'd told her about Rumlow getting away, but he hadn't told her it had been his fault. He knows he should have stopped the beta from slipping away, or at the very least gone after him, but once Steve had laid eyes on Bucky, his whole world had flipped off its axis, and he'd been spinning, unable to focus on anything else. 

Bucky, for his part, had been too focused on first Rumlow and then Tony to pay him much attention, and when he did, it had been without any flicker of recognition. Not that Steve could blame him, he had changed a lot in the years, but staring at Bucky through the bars, he could tell Bucky had changed, too. Not physically, of course — that flawless face, the one that haunts his dreams still, is just the same as he remembers it, unmarred by the past five years. But Bucky seems different, harder somehow, as if time has ravaged him inside if not out.

But while the world had started spinning the moment he'd seen those gray eyes, it had been Bucky's revelation that had sent him spiraling, and he hadn't been able to shake off the sense of foreboding those words had brought in the hours since.

"Have you ever heard of shifting at will, without the moon?"

Nat snorts. "Has Peter been in your ear again? I swear that kid thinks comic books come from the non-fiction section."

"I'm serious, Nat. Do you think it's possible Malek and Pierce were killed because they'd shifted and were attacking someone?"

"I guess anything is possible, but one—" Nat holds up a finger, "—do you really think those two would know how to shift like that? They weren't the sharpest crayons in the pack. And two—" another finger joins the first, "— _who_ were they supposedly attacking? And three—" she lifts another finger, trapping her pinky with her thumb, looking so much like she's giving a boy scout salute, Steve almost smiles, "—who told you all of this? It seems like a pretty specific theory to pull out of thin air."

"I was hoping you could tell me about the how; you have more Lycan knowledge than anyone else I know—"

"That's not exactly a huge compliment coming from a reclusive shut-in," Nat interrupts with a fond smile.

"And it was Tony they were—"

"Tony? _Your_ Tony?"

"He's not _my_ Tony." Steve says quickly, recalling the way Bucky had looked at Tony in the cabin. That same hungry, possessive look Bucky used to get when looking at _him._ The twinge in his chest is sharp and quick, and Steve isn't sure whether it's for Tony or Bucky… or both. "But yeah, _that_ Tony. As for the third, it came from, ah, from Bucky."

"Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky?"

Steve blows out a low breath but holds Nat's stare, bracing himself, knowing the storm whirling around them has nothing on Nat's fury. "He's the one that killed them."

Red curls dance in the wind, blowing across Nat's face as she stands frozen, staring at Steve with wide eyes. "Are you fucking ser—" she breaks off, eyes flashing. "Steve, please tell me you didn't go and track down the vampire who killed two of your pack, had a little chat, and actually believed some contrived bullshit he fed you about saving Tony? He was playing you, Rogers. Jesus, how hard did Rumlow hit you in the head?"

"I know how it sounds—" At Nat's incredulous look, he shakes his head, "— but I believe him, Nat. He wouldn't have attacked them unprovoked, especially not when outnumbered and vulnerable. There had to be a reason for him to intervene, to put himself in danger like that, and the only reason he'd do that is to save someone else."

"Oh, of course. I'm sure he's the dark, brooding, _heroic_ blood-sucker type," Nat sighs. "And why are you talking like you know him? How would you know what he would or wouldn't do, exactly?" 

Steve's heart pounds in his throat as all the secrets he'd trapped inside, that he ones he had never shared with anyone, claw desperately to get out. He wraps a hand around the shovel handle, picking at the wood with a fingernail anxiously. "Because that's what he did for me."

Nat's eyes edge wider still before they narrow shrewdly. "I always knew there were skeletons in your closet, Rogers, I just hadn't been expecting vampires, too. Can't lie and say I'm not a little impressed, though. When did this happen?"

"A long time ago. I was getting my ass handed to me in an alley." Steve scowls at the suggestive twitching of Nat's lips. "Not like _that_. I had a bad habit of letting my mouth get me into trouble that my fists couldn't get me out of. And that day, some guy pulled a knife, but Bucky stepped in, in broad daylight, and, uh, stopped him."

"And by stopped, you mean drained him like a pool in the winter?"

The barb finds purchase in Steve's gut, but he doesn't answer. "The asshole got me pretty good." Steve lifts his shirt to reveal the long, jagged grey-black scar running from his ribs to his navel, before dropping it back down, his fingers toying with the hem. "Buck saved me. Stopped me from bleeding out and dying in that alley. And he could have, could have left me to die, or had me for lunch—" the corner of his lips quirk up as Bucky's words drift back to him from all those years ago, "—or, a _light snack_ at least, and no one would have known I was dead; there was no one to miss me. But he didn't. He went against his own best interests and saved me." 

Sweet memories, turned bitter with time, rush through him, and his grip tightens on the shovel, the wood splintering against his skin. He had been smitten from the off. Maybe being born a shifter, even if he hadn't known it at the time, had given him a more open mind, a readiness to believe in the impossible. Or, maybe it had just been his intense and instant attraction to the most beautiful man he'd ever seen. In any case, he had not questioned the existence of a world within his own, and felt no hesitation or fear, only fascination and a touch of envy. He'd followed Bucky into an abandoned building, out of the light, and hadn't stopped asking questions until long after the sun had set. And then… 

Steve rubs a hand over the flush creeping up the back of his neck.

"So, the alpha and the vampire, huh? How very Romeo and Juliet of you."

"I wasn't an alpha then. It was before all of this, back when I was…"

"I swear to god, Steve, if you say normal, I _will_ kick your ass."

Steve's lips curve up as he shakes his head. "...Smaller."

"Oh. So when you wolfed out, he didn't take it well?"

"He — it ended before that," Steve murmurs. It had only taken one look into those gray eyes, for everything to come flooding back. All the thoughts, the feelings, the yearning, everything he has fought so hard to push down, to shake off, is back like the past five years hadn't happened. All of it... including the pain. His chest constricts as memories of coming home, of finding Bucky gone, slice through him once more, stealing his breath just the same as the day it happened. He had spent months looking for him, and months more putting himself in more and more increasingly dangerous situations, hoping Bucky would appear, to intervene again, to save him. But his plan had failed and his hopes had died, and his bloodied and bruised body had only served as a distraction from the agony in his chest. After finally having found _home_ , to have it snatched away, without warning, without a _why,_ had almost broken him completely.  
  
Steve turns his face to the moon, almost full now, and wills the light to chase away the dark thoughts. "It was before he knew what I was — before _I_ knew what I was. But, despite everything that happened in the past, I believe him now. It's the missing piece, the one that completes the puzzle — why they were in the clearing, the lack of clothes, the fight not triggering the link, the wolves Tony saw… it all fits. I just don't know the _how._ "

A hesitant look flashes through Nat's eyes before she lowers them to the ground, training her gaze on a black boot as she kicks at the icy ground.

Steve cocks his head to the side, a knot forming in his stomach. "Out with it. Now is not the time for your secrets."

"It's probably nothing."

"It might be everything."

Nat drags her eyes back up to Steve, uncertainty etched into the fine lines of her face. "It's just... Everyone knows Rumlow's father was an alpha; he never shut up about it." She rolls her eyes. "But by all accounts, he was a bit mad. There were rumors of him torturing vampires to find their weaknesses, experimenting on them... trying to learn how to shift at will to be able to match them. I thought it was just the usual bullshit; I never considered for a moment that any of it was true."

Steve only realizes he'd wanted Nat to tell him he's crazy, that there's no way to shift at will when she doesn't. The embers of hope that had been glimmering in his chest burn out, the crushing weight of reality settling over him. "If it is true, do you think he would have passed that information down to Rumlow?"

"Maybe," Nat draws out slowly. "I imagine Brock was probably the greatest disappointment of his father's life, even though it was of his own making — apparently he couldn't keep his knot in his pants and knocked up a beta, so Rumlow was never going to be an alpha, not without an omega mother. I think that's why he resents you so much. You represent everything he thinks he _should_ be, what he thinks he deserves. He wants his own pack, and if his father taught him to shift at will, then he may be using that to try and get it."

"Judging by how many betas we have left, I'm guessing he's already got it."

"Look, whatever this is, Steve… it's going to get ugly before the end. They match us in number, but if they really can force-shift, they outmatch us in strength, and if they come for us, we won't stand a chance."

"I know. But Rumlow is in no condition to attack, not yet. We have time to make plans. And I think... I think I may have an idea."

Nat shakes her head. "No. Steve, _no._ You can't seriously be considering getting a vampire to play guard dog to a bunch of wolves. Are you trying to chase off the entire pack? If you side with a vamp, let alone the one that killed two of us, there _will_ be an uprising or mass exodus." 

"What other choice do I have?" Steve huffs. "If they want to run, they can. I'm trying to protect them, trying to do what's best with what I've got, which… isn't much, I know. Bucky is the only one strong enough to give us a chance, at least until the full moon, and he has his own reasons for hating Rumlow; he seems to have a… a connection to Tony, and Rumlow, for whatever reason, wants Tony dead. He might be willing to call a truce and work together if I tell him we'll help protect Tony."

Nat shifts from indignation to amusement in a heartbeat, so quick it leaves Steve reeling, frowning at the way her eyes sparkle mischievously in the moonlight. "Seriously? Your ex-vampire-boyfriend has the hots for your Tony?"

Steve sighs, the good-natured ribbing rubbing over his open wound like salt. "He's _not_ mine," Steve says again, grimly. _Not yet._ "He's human, Nat. I can't—" 

"If you like each other, there are ways…"

"You really expect me to turn him just so I can get my knot wet? It wouldn't matter, anyway, he'd be a beta, and that's not a fitting bondmate for an alpha," Steve spits, frustration sharpening his tongue.

Nat's eyes bore into him, and he's exposed, laid bare under the intense green gaze. "Wow, you really want this guy, huh?"

Steve presses his lips into a tight seam, not trusting himself to hold his tongue. Nat has an innate ability to draw secrets from people, but he's not ready to tell anyone about the connection he feels with Tony, not when he doesn't understand it himself. He hasn't felt anything like this since… since _Bucky_. Memories of Bucky rise in his mind, mixing with those of Tony, bleeding together, old and new, until it's a confusing mix of hope and pain and love and lust. 

"What I want doesn't matter, not right now. I need to protect him. He's in danger because of me, I need to keep him safe along with the pack. And right now, the only way I can think to do that is..."

"Bucky," Nat sighs.

"Bucky." Steve agrees.  
  
"It's been a long time, Steve. How do you know he's still the same... person that he was back then? He could just turn Tony himself and he wouldn't need us as back up anyway."  
  
"He won't turn Tony," Steve says firmly, trying to keep the pain from his voice. Of that much, he's sure. "And I don't know if he's the same as he was. But he saved Tony when he didn't have to, so I have to hope there's still some of who he used to be left in there somewhere." Steve wipes the wet trails of melted snow from his face before giving Nat a reassuring smile he doesn't quite feel. "We won't know until tomorrow where the chips will fall, but right now, we should head inside; this storm is only going to get worse."

Nat moves close, nudging Steve's arm with her shoulder. "I hope you know what you're doing, Steve," she murmurs. 

_So do I._ He slings an arm over Nat's shoulders and tugs her close as they start back to the house in mostly-comfortable silence. He knows it's not the best plan in the world, in fact, it's probably closer to the _worst_ , but it's the only one he has. It's a long shot; after today, help may be the last thing Bucky wants to do. But Steve has to get him to agree, whatever it takes. He can't protect what's left of his pack, can't protect _Tony_ without help, so whatever the price, he'll pay it. 

He just hopes he's not handing Bucky a chance to rip his heart out... he's not sure he'll survive it again. 


	11. Chapter 11

The strangled noise escaping Tony's throat is somewhere between a whimper and a groan, carrying with it every ounce of certainty he has in his body that he's never, ever, _ever_ drinking again. 

...okay, never, ever, _ever_ drinking _enough to land himself a hangover,_ again. 

But… he hadn't had _that_ much, had he?

Clenching his teeth, he pulls in a slow breath through his nose, willing the cramping in his stomach to ease. He can't throw up. Throwing up means rolling on to his side, and moving risks his skull actually cracking open with the sheer force of the pounding currently happening within. He doesn't even try and stop the groan rumbling from his parched throat.

"Are you alright?"

Tony's eyes fly open as Bucky's soft voice floats down from directly above him. He snaps them closed again when the room starts to spin immediately.

"Uh-huh. Just… worst… hangover… ever."

"It's not a hangover," Bucky murmurs, pressing something wet and freezing against Tony's forehead. 

"Fuck!" Tony jerks away from the icy cloth, scrambling to a sitting position before dropping his head to his hands and squeezing his eyes shut against the violent thumping inside " _Fuck_ ," he mutters again, silently begging his stomach contents to stay in his stomach, wincing as his hand presses on his bruised cheekbone. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack or hypothermia?"

"The cloth is barely cool, Tony. You're burning up."

"I—" Tony clamps his lips together and raises a hand to his forehead. He doesn't think he has a fever, hand and head are the same temperature, but that's a flawed system of measurement. Taking a moment to mentally catalog all the ways he feels like absolute shit, he has to admit there's the telltale heat prickling his eyeballs, like they're simmering gently in his skull. "I might be a tad under the weather," he croaks. "But, I'm sure it feels worse than it is."

There's a pause, heavy and long, before Bucky finally responds. "It isn't." 

Tony peels his lids up to find Bucky staring down at him, twisting the washcloth between his hands as he takes a step back, then another, and another, until his hesitant retreat is thwarted by the bedroom wall.

"You can relax. I'm pretty sure if I were contagious, after last night, you'd already be sick."

"We need to talk."

Tony fights back the instinctive panic that flares in his gut; those four words are never the harbingers of anything but bad news. "No, I know. About last night, I'm sorry. That was — that was _not_ why I asked you here, I swear. I had no ulterior mot—"

"That's not what I'm talking about," Bucky interrupts, holding up a hand to silence Tony. "This is about you, your sickness. This is going to be hard to hear, but I need you to listen, and I need you to believe me."

"Well, that doesn't sound ominous at all." Tony flinches as his tongue swipes over his lip, still tender from the night before. 

"This sickness, it started the day in the clearing when you were bitten. It's only going to get worse. You're infected."

"Infected? Like… rabies?"

"More like Lycanthropy."

Tony's lips pucker and dance side to side as he hums thoughtfully. "You know you're a free man now, right? You don't need the whole insanity defense bit."

"The wolves that attacked you... they weren't ordinary wolves, they were Lycans. Shifters."

Tony squints at Bucky, trying to think through the constant throbbing in his head. Maybe he should have asked Banner to do some kind of workup to test Bucky's mental competency. What are the odds he had let an A-grade nutjob into his home? He discards the idea immediately. Bucky has been plenty lucid in all their interactions so far, especially last _— oh. _Is this some kind of teasing after last night? Or maybe Bucky's into roleplay. His cock twitches with interest, and Tony barely holds back the groan of frustration; his body breaking down and perking up at the same time might actually kill him. Still, he can't stop the question slipping past his lips.

"Uh-huh, werewolves. So that would make you Red Riding Hood, right? And you've come to seduce me with a basket of flowers?"

The blank mask of Bucky's face cracks, his brows creasing together and lips pressing tight; a mirror of Tony's earlier confusion. "You've never actually heard that story, have you?"

"Flowers, bread, whatever," Tony mutters. "The details don't matter, what I'm trying to work out is if you're about to lose everything you're wearing and don a pretty red hood. Because if you are, I'm going to need some lead time to down a packet of painkillers and give them time to work. I can't take throbbing in more than one place at a time today."

Bucky is standing against the wall and then — isn't. He's suddenly beside the bed, folded down on his knees, ass pressing against his bare feet, and Tony has to squeeze his eyes shut against the odd sense of vertigo swirling through him. 

"Open your eyes, Tony. I need you to see me."

Tony waits until the sensation eases before following Bucky's request. "Look, I'm not sure what—" The words catch in his throat as Bucky's lips pull up. It's not a smile, not exactly, there's no emotion behind it, just lips parting and lifting to reveal dazzling white teeth and ——

Tony blinks slowly, watching the two pointed canines push down, growing until they're extended past the row of his upper teeth, curving slightly outward.

"T-that's, ahh, that's a neat trick, it's some kind of weird biology thing, right, like double jointedness or something? And here I thought I was special because I can lick my elbow." 

"Tony."

"No, that's not—" Tony shakes his head before wincing and reaching up to press the heels of his hands against the rhythmic pounding of his temples. "—I don't understand."

Bucky reaches up a thumb and runs it over an extended tooth. Blood, so dark it's almost black, spills from the clean slice before Bucky rubs his finger on the fabric of his borrowed sweats. When he lifts his thumb again, the blood is gone… and so is the wound. 

The bubble of laughter bursting from Tony's throat is the wrong side of hysterical. His mind is racing, trying to find the joke, the punchline, the logic. It's not possible. He crosses his legs beneath the damp sheets covering his body and pulls a pillow into his lap, hugging it tightly with trembling arms. He's dreaming, he has to be. The grip of panic constricting his throat eases as he latches on to the thought with both hands.

"What are you?"

"A vampire."

"Right. Of course. You're a vampire, and I'm a werewolf."

"Not yet, but you are changing." 

"Uh-huh. Full moon. Got it." 

Bucky's eyes narrow on Tony's. "You don't believe me."

"Oh, no, it makes perfect sense. I just hope I remember it all when I wake up."

"You're not dreaming."

Tony scoffs. "Vampires, werewolves, none of that exists. Next you're going to tell me you rode into town on a unicorn, and there's a magical troll that lives in the forest. This, it's just… I'm just dreaming."

"We don't have time for you to work through your denial, Tony. The full moon is close — It might already be too late. I need you to trust me. Here…"

The certainty of Tony's conviction cracks under Bucky's adamant tone, and when a cool hand wraps around his gently and lifts it toward a pointed peak, it crumbles away completely. Tony gasps at the sharp pain in his finger, his mind recognizing it as the same pain he'd felt in his tongue last night. The strong grip trapping his hand keeps him from pulling away as blood pools on his fingertip, and Tony watches as Bucky lifts his own free hand to his mouth and slices another finger open. This time, though, Bucky doesn't wipe the blood away but runs it over Tony's wound. Dark blood obscures bright, and the pain in his finger eases, then disappears completely. Bucky runs his thumb over Tony's finger, sweeping away their mix of blood, and Tony's mouth falls open. 

"Look familiar?" Bucky's voice is rough, abraded with an emotion Tony can't name, his attention so wholly focused on his finger.

The wound is gone, the only lingering proof of the cut is a single, fine, grey-black line. Tony's free hand flies to his chest and fingers the scar hidden below his shirt, his heart thumping painfully below his hand. He had spent more hours than he could count staring at the strange scar on his chest, the unnatural color so at odds with the other marks surrounding it. He'd never come close to explaining it, until now. 

"I don't understand." The secure grip releases his hand, and Tony lifts it closer to his face, staring at the scar. " _How?"_

"I was there that night. I found you."

"But that was… that was over twenty years ago. You can't... "

"I'm older than I look," Bucky drawls darkly.

Fragments of his dreams splinter through him, the accident, the blood, the pain in his chest, the screech of metal, and the snow gusting into the car. It's always when the dream dies, always when the world turns black, but not now. _Now_ , for the first time, Tony can see, he can _remember_. 

"You pulled the door off the car, pulled me out of it. You touched my chest, you — you saved me." Realization crystallizes, sweeping away the denial and panic, and a strange sense of calm envelops him, like passing into the eye of a storm. Puzzle pieces begin to snap into place. "Just like you did that day in the clearing." Tony rubs his fingers over his chest before reaching down to fill his fists with the sheet, needing to anchor himself to something familiar as layers of his small world are peeled away, taking with them everything he thought he knew. "You're serious, aren't you? About… everything?"

Bucky nods, and Tony mirrors the movement. "Okay." He blows out a deep breath. "Okay." He refills his lungs with air that suddenly feels different than it did just a moment before — heavier, thicker. "I have a few questions."

A small smile plays on Bucky's lips. "Just a few?"

"The day in the clearing… what happened?"

"The shifters attacked you, and I should never have… but I couldn't sit by and watch. I intervened, stopped two but a third got away. I put you into your truck to keep you safe and crawled beneath it to get out of the sun."

Sunlight. Vampires. Strict dietary requirement… suddenly, Tony sees everything that had happened in the last few days in a completely new light. Bucky _hadn't_ lied to him, not once. Tony just didn't have the thread to connect all the dots until now. "So, the bodies at the clinic, they're shifters? They're the ones that attacked me? But they're human."

"They weren't when I stopped them. Shifters turn back if they die in wolf form."

"Oh." Tony feels like he should be writing all this down, in case he'll need it in some supernatural pop quiz later. "And do you know who the third one is?"

"Rumlow." Bucky spits the word out on a growl.

 _'He almost killed you.'_ Bucky's voice echoes through Tony's head. He had misunderstood, yesterday, what the words had meant. He thought Bucky was talking about the incident at Steve's, but how would Bucky know that? No, he'd been talking about that day in the clearing. So, Rumlow had tried to kill him twice. But...why? And… 

Tony's pulse increases, drumming behind his temples as more pieces fall into place. 

"Rumlow, the bodies in the freezer, they're all... Steve's cousins are all…" Tony swallows the word harshly. "Can you tell who's a — Is Steve…?"

Bucky's eyes flash before he drops his head low and gives a single, sharp nod. "Steve's the alpha, the pack leader."

"Oh." Tony's heart stutters in his chest, the ache of the skipped beat echoing through him with each new thump against his ribs. He'd thought he'd been going insane. His body, his mind — for the past few days, every thought, ever instinct he'd had, had felt _wrong_ , like he didn't even know himself anymore. It's a strange relief to know he isn't crazy, he _is_ losing himself, even if the knowing does nothing to change the facts. And the facts are Steve's a werewolf. Bucky's a vampire. Dark humor courses through him. At least now he knows he has a type.

"If you fix me, stop whatever is happening, will all this go away? The sickness, the uncontrollable desires?"

"It should."

"And if you don't. What happens if I turn into… what happens if I turn?"

"On the full moon, you'll shift for the first time. Your bones will break and reform, and you'll be reborn as a wolf. And every month after, it'll happen again; from sundown to sunrise, you'll be a wolf. I don't know how much of you stays inside, how much you're still _you,_ but you will live like that for the rest of your life."

"Sundown? But I was attacked in the morning."

"I know. Something's changing, I don't know how, but they've learned to shift at will," Bucky says grimly.

The memory of his attack, the thought of Phillips' near miss, flash through his mind. "And if I turn, when I shift, I could hurt people?"

"Yes. I don't know if you _would_ , but the Lycans... _most_ of the Lycans I've crossed paths with were cruel creatures in human form and brutal when transformed." Bucky reaches up, trailing his fingers over the sleeve covering his left arm, over the scars Tony knows are hidden beneath. "They're… they're the ones that did this to me," he grinds out, the words low and raw. "I can't make this choice for you, Tony, but what we are, lycans, vampires, it's not natural, _we're_ not natural. We're monsters."

Bucky hesitates, silver eyes full of anguish. "I'm the reason your life was changed once. That night, I was injured, escaping from the lycans, and I didn't see the car. Your father swerved to miss me; I'm the reason your parents are dead. I'm so sorry, Tony. I know I can never make up for what I've stolen from you, for the pain I caused, but if you'll let me, I would like to help you, to stop your life from being forever changed again.

The words slam into Tony like a physical blow and sets his world spinning again. The ache in his head is no longer just from the sickness ravaging him. It's too much to process, too much to feel, just _too much_. Blinking back the stinging in his eyes, he pushes the new information away. If he thinks about that now, he's going to fall apart, and he's not sure he'll have the strength to pull himself back together. He'll deal with it later. ...if there _is_ a later. 

Tony notches his chin higher, and fights to keep his voice steady. "You said you could fix it? How?"

Bucky wavers, looking like he's waiting for Tony to break apart, break down, or try and break _him_. But when no reaction is forthcoming, he nods and follows Tony's lead, sticking to the problem at hand. "Your blood is infected. I think if I can drain your blood and replace it with non-infected blood, it might stop the transformation." 

"Gotta be honest with you, _'think_ ' and ' _might_ ' aren't great confidence builders. And the draining and replacing sounds..." He can't stop the full-body shudder rolling through him. "Again, not to sound like a broken record, but _how?_ I like facts, certainties, plans. Lay it out for me; _Stopping Werewolfism for Dummies."_

"The draining is the easy part," Bucky says softly, drawing the corners of his lips up and running his tongue behind his teeth. "And the replacing, well…" He nods toward the dresser set against the wall. 

Tony follows Bucky's line of sight to see blood bags and assorted medical paraphernalia piled high on the wooden surface. "It was you. You broke into the clinic last night?" 

Bucky just shrugs, not looking the least bit contrite. "I needed some things in case you said yes." 

It's oddly comforting, knowing Bucky had at least given this plan _some_ forethought. "Will it hurt? You, ah, biting me?"

"After the initial sting of broken skin, no. My saliva has chemicals that your body will break down into endorphins." 

"Oh," Tony says again before catching his cheek between his teeth. "But if you bite me, won't it be the same as the wolves? Won't I become a v-v…" he trails off, unable to push the word past his lips "...uh, you know, like you?"

"No. That's not how it works. We — _I_ — have toxins, venom, that has to be introduced into your body to turn you. Drin- taking blood from you won't change you."

"Okay. Well, that's good, I suppose." Now Tony's brain has accepted this reality, each revelation is becoming easier to assimilate into his new world view. "And have you done this before?"

"No."

"Are you sure it's going to work?"

"No."

"Excellent. What are we waiting for?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i. Trigger warnings for this chapter include: blood drinking, vaguely referenced medical procedure, and vomiting.

His fangs sinking into the soft flesh of Tony's neck is everything and nothing Bucky had been dreaming of. Tony's heart is racing much too fast, beating against his ribs like a hummingbird's wings against a cage, not as small but just as fragile, and just as eager to escape. The erratic thumping pushes the vein up to his lips, surrendering its nectar to his mouth eagerly. The chemicals from his body pass into Tony's, and the small moan that slips from Tony's lips shiver down his spine as warm hands come up to tangle in his hair, the scent of arousal simmering on feverish skin. 

Tony's life rushes over his tongue, thick and bitter, and Bucky steels himself against the taste, forcing himself to swallow it down, drawing back just enough to let the blood flow more freely as he sucks at the puncture marks, drinking Tony in, consuming him. 

The more blood that slips down his throat, the more his stomach protests, rolling sickeningly, trying to push it back up, to purge his system of the poison filling him. The thrum of Tony's pulse echoes in his head, the straining heart slowing as it loses volume to pump. 

Tony goes lax on the bed, his heart stuttering, and Bucky withdraws his fangs completely. Bright red leaks from the wound slowly, no longer running freely. Bucky moves in a blink, straightening, darting to start the machine by the bed and returning to his place beside Tony, watching transparent tubes fill and ferry fresh blood into Tony's body through the IV secured by his clavicle. 

Pressing his mouth back to Tony's neck, Bucky sucks at the marks, coaxing blood from the wound until bitter turns sweet. He runs his tongue over his teeth, slicing it open and licks at the punctures, feeling the bleeding stop and the wound heal.

His cool hand on Tony's chest is enough to find the new beat, weak but steady, and Bucky lets his gaze linger, watching ashen skin slowly refills with color before he rises. Through the metallic scented fog filling the room, it takes him a moment too long for the new scent - the scent of wolf - to reach him, and by the time Bucky is three steps clear of the bed, the crash of the door bursting open downstairs fills the house, and he's knocked to the ground. 

"What did you do to him?"

Bucky stares at the shifter atop him, before growling and trying to shove him off, but the tainted blood in his system has made him weak, again, and Steve catches his arms and pins them over his head easily. 

"What did you do?" Steve growls again, eyes flashing with suspicion.

"I saved him," Bucky spits back. "At least I'm trying to, so either kill me or get off me and help." 

Steve's eyes dart to Tony, running down his body, following the path of the tubes to the machine before he releases Bucky's hands and moves off him, pushing to his feet. 

Bucky straightens with a groan, turns on his heel and races to the bathroom, the room blurring past in a second before he's on his knees in front of the toilet, pushing the contaminated blood from his belly, wincing as the bitterness flows over his tongue in reverse. 

"What the fuck is going on?" Steve fills the doorway, arms tucked across his chest, confusion and anger ripping through his voice. 

Bucky heaves, again and again, trying to empty his stomach before too much wolf blood makes it into his system. "Little busy, Steve," Bucky mutters, head still surrounded by a porcelain halo. "Give me a minute."

"Is that— is that Tony's blood?" Steve asks, aghast. 

"It's mine, now," Bucky mutters darkly. "Finders keepers."

"This isn't a joke, Bucky. Did you drink from him? Did you turn him?"

Bucky just shakes his head and pushes the remainder of the blood from his stomach before collapsing, his ass hitting the cold tiles. He shuffles backward until he bumps up against the wall and drops his head back, hitting the wall with a solid thump. The sound of flushing makes him pry his eyes open to see Steve, grimacing down at him, lifting his hand from the cistern. 

"Go check on Tony. Hang another couple of blood bags on the infuser." Bucky closes his eyes again. His body is strangely, _alarmingly,_ getting used to existing in a weakened state — fighting away certain death rapidly becoming the new normal. But the past few days have taken a hell of a toll on his body, and without fresh blood to heal himself, the infected blood running through his veins may actually be his undoing. But Tony will be okay, and that's all that matters. He'd taken Tony's life from him once already, the least he can do is give his to save it now.

"Bucky?"

Bucky opens his eyes to find Steve kneeling next to him, wary concern darkening his eyes. "Are you alright? You don't look great."

"Is Tony okay?"

"I don't know, Bucky, I'm not a doctor. If I had to guess then, yeah, his heartbeat and breathing are mostly steady, and he doesn't look on death's door, which is more than I can say for you."

"Mmm. You know me, no heart to beat."

"We both know that's not true."

Bucky grimaces. Yeah, they do. His heart still beats, though too slow to count, and his blood still moves under his skin, crawling through his veins like poison. No, he's not dead, he's just a ghost — a shell of the man he used to be. Forced to watch the ones he loves wither away, lost to sickness and time as he lingers. The infinite gift he had been given the same one that had taken everything from him — not his life, just the things that had made it worth living. 

"I'm fine. It's just a little—" His lips twitch as he recalls Tony's words "—allergic reaction; it'll pass."

"Reaction to?"

"Wolf blood."

Steve's brows furrow. "I don't understand."

"Tony was bitten."

"Jesus. You drained him so you — fuck, Bucky. That could kill you both."

Bucky shakes his head, his lips curving up in a small, dark smile. "Not him, just me."

"What is it with you? Is it worth risking your life, risking Tony's life on the off chance this works? Do you think being turned is really that bad? Worse than death?"

"Yes," Bucky whispers, pulling his knees to his chest and locking his shaky arms around them. Those blue eyes stare at him imploringly, filled with so much anguish and confusion that Bucky breaks, the need to soothe the pain from Steve's face rising through the years, still ingrained too deeply to shake off. He can give Steve answers, he owes him that much at least. "It _is_ worse, that's what you never understood, Steve. That's why I could never turn you, no matter how much you begged me."

"I didn't beg."

Bucky doesn't argue; there's no point — they both know it's not true. "We shouldn't exist, Steve. We're aberrant, mistakes of nature. Our gifts are a curse, to ourselves and others. I cannot live without taking from others, you can't live without giving up a piece of yourself taken by force. Ours isn't a life we should inflict on anyone else, even if they ask for it."

"How can you say that? I know you've done things in your past, things you regret. But you were just willing to trade your life for Tony's, a monster wouldn't do that."

"I'm just repaying an old debt."

"Bullshit. I've seen the way you look at him."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Bucky snaps, turning away.

"I'm the only one that knows," Steve murmurs. "It's the way you used to look at me."

Bucky's eyes jerk up to Steve, tracing the new lines of his face — so different yet still the same. The same determination setting his jaw, the familiar flash of passionate indignation in those stormy eyes, and the lips that had spent hours crushed against his, that had spent a lifetime forming his name — in happiness and sadness, frustration and ecstasy — still the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

"You would have hated what you'd become, and then you would have hated me for making you that way. Leaving you was the hardest thing I've had to do in my entire life, Steve. But I would have lost you anyway if I turned you, only then, I would have stolen your life from you, your heartbeat, all your goodness and warmth just gone, gone because of me. I couldn't do that. Not to you." Bucky shoves his hand through his hair, pushing the long locks from his face and barks out a harsh, dark laugh as a tremor jerks through him. "And now, it doesn't matter. None of it mattered. I gave you up to save you, and you lost yourself anyway."

"It would have mattered to me," Steve says quietly. "I never thought you were a monster. I never cared _what_ you were, what I was, I just wanted to be with you. Not until sickness or old age separated us, but forever, and you could have given me that, given _us_ that. But instead of telling me that isn't what you wanted, you just threw me away like a toy you got tired of playing with. You left without a word. You were just gone. You were my whole world, you were my _home,_ and then you were just gone."

"Steve, that's not…"

Steve pushes to his feet, turning his back on Bucky, tension coiling his body tight. "No, you're right. It doesn't matter anymore, the only thing that matters right now is Tony. You said he was bitten?"  
  
Bucky stares at Steve, wanting to lay his hands on those broad shoulders and shake him, make him listen, make him understand, but he'd imposed his will on Steve enough for two lifetimes, he can honor his wishes now.

"Rumlow," Bucky hisses, the name burning his tongue. "That day in the clearing."

"Rum…" Steve spits out a curse. "How? How did they shift?"

"I don't know. I followed them to the clearing on a hunch. They phased, but it wasn't natural. It was slow, painful, and they were weak afterwards. It's the only reason the two mutts ended up in the freezer instead of Tony. But... they're your pack, shouldn't you know how they did it? Can't you do it, too?"

Steve shakes his head. "That's why I was coming to see you. They're not my pack, not anymore. Rumlow left and took half the betas with him. I think they're planning something, an attack on what's left of the pack, or Tony or you, I don't know, I can't feel the link anymore. But if they can shift at will.. I was coming to ask for your help, but with the state you're in…"

"Why would they attack their own pack? Or, old pack?"

"It's a long story."

"I'm sure I have time enough left to hear it."

Steve turns to look at Tony, closing his eyes, and Bucky knows he's searching out the soft heartbeat that he can hear from the joining bedroom. Apparently content with what he hears, Steve's eyes open, but he doesn't turn back.  
  
"An alpha has two main responsibilities to their pack — protection and procreation. Protecting the pack is easy; we're tucked away from the rest of the world, and you're the first threat that's surfaced in the two years we've been there. But continuing the line—" Steve clears his throat as red creeps up his neck. "An alpha is expected to take an omega, it's the only suitable bondmate, the only way to birth a new alpha, but I've never… ah, omegas are rare, we don't have any in the pack. In some of the pack's eyes, being unbonded makes me unworthy of my status. In Rumlow's eyes, I'm not half the leader he'd be, and he wants everything I have, if only to prove he could do it better."

The thought of Steve mating with someone unleashes a swell of possessiveness, dark and raw, inside him. Memories of Steve, small but strong, clinging to him, broken cries settling on sweat-slicked skin, taking what he wanted, and always, always giving Bucky what he needed, throb through him. Bucky had loved Steve, as much as he'd been able with the shriveled heart inside his chest, and god help him, looking at him now, he still does. 

The stirrings he feels for Tony hadn't eclipsed or dulled his feelings for Steve, just bloomed right alongside them. Two bright spots in his world of darkness. He can't risk Rumlow taking the only precious things left to him in this life. He'll die before another Rumlow takes anything from him ever again.

"You said you wanted my help."

"I — yeah." Steve turns back to Bucky, blinking as if taken aback by the abrupt change in subject. "I wanted to ask you to come with me, you and Tony, back to my place. You could help protect my pack, and they can help protect Tony. We're matched in number but outmatched in strength if they come before the full moon—"

"They won't," Bucky interjects, groaning and dropping his head to his knees as cramps seize his stomach. "They're too weak when shifted in daylight. With practice, they'll get stronger in time, but for now, they won't want a repeat of the clearing."

"You can't be certain of that."

"Your lot heal quickly, but not enough that Rumlow's arm will mend before the moon rises. If he is angling for the position of pack leader, he won't let the others attack without him."

"So you won't help?"

"I didn't say that. I will help you, Steve, but _after_ I help Tony. He's not going to be in any shape to go anywhere for at least a day. After that, if he consents, we'll come with you. I'll help your pack with the coming fight with one condition: I need your word that you will protect Tony after it, once I'm gone. Protect him, but never turn him."

"You're leaving?" Pain bleeds through Steve's voice, but bitterness turns the words sharp. The unspoken ' _again'_ rings loud and clear. 

"I can't stay. Bad things happen when I'm—" Bucky shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. I can't stay."

A beat of silence passes between them as indecision clouds Steve's eyes. "Fine. I'll agree to your terms if you agree to mine."

Despite the pain rolling through his body, Bucky can't stop the small smile tugging at his lips. Some things about Steve hadn't changed a bit in the past five years. "Which are?"

"I'm guessing all the blood bags you collected, the ones currently feeding into Tony, are the entire stock the clinic had." At Bucky's slight nod, Steve pulls in a deep breath and squares his shoulders. "Then I promise to protect Tony once you're gone. But first, I need your protection, and for that, you need your strength — you need to feed."

Steve pulls his shirt over his head and drops it to the floor. He trails the back of his fingers over the inner line of bicep, his nails scraping the dark silver-black scar and Bucky throbs in Tony's too-tight pants. 

It had been his favorite spot to take from Steve. After fucking him for hours, for an eternity, breaking him over and over until he'd been lost to everything but the feel of Bucky inside him, casting him into oblivion and reeling him back with each rapturous thrust, Bucky only breaking himself when sharp teeth sliced through soft skin, pulling blood out of Steve's body even as he pumped his seed into it. It was a wound opened so often, the scar so deep, that even Steve's turning hadn't been able to erase it.

Steve draws another deep, shaky breath. His voice is soft and his eyes dark. "I want you to drink from me."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Sorry for the wait. I was sitting on this, doing a lot of thinking in light of current events. After much pondering, I’ve decided to keep going with the story. 
> 
> But if you aren’t in a place where you feel comfortable continuing reading, I get it. If you need to shelve the story or abandon reading it completely, I understand. You do you. You do what you need to do to keep breathing to make it to the next day. For me, that’s losing myself in fictional character’s heads and worlds that let me escape my own… even just for a little while. 
> 
> The Sheriff Tony aspect does feature in future chapters, but not as much as the supernatural themes and ABO elements starting to come into play. So, just please be aware of that moving forward.
> 
> For those that do continue with the adventures of Steve, Bucky, and Tony, I hope you enjoy it! <3
> 
> ii. Trigger Warning for a brief mention of suicidal thoughts and blood-drinking.
> 
> iii. There is sexual content in this chapter. It's not much, and some of this is tied to the story, but If that's not your thing, once you get to the non-pertinent parts (denoted by a single *) just search (Ctrl+F) for ** to skip to the end.
> 
> ☆━━━━━━━━━☆  
> 

Bucky shoves to his feet, swaying slightly before grabbing hold of the towel rack, steadying himself. “You heard me say wolf blood is the _reason_ I just had my head in the toilet, and your solution is for me to drink more?”

A flash of annoyance bolts through Steve as he folds his arms across his chest. “There’s nothing _in_ the blood making you sick; it’s what’s _not_ in it.”

Confusion clouds Bucky’s face, his brows tugging together. “Is that supposed to make sense to me?”

“Wolf designations don’t just affect the hierarchy of a pack; they’re tied to blood, _borne_ of blood. Rumlow’s a beta, and if Tony turns, he’ll be one, too. Betas and omegas are missing key proteins in their bodies. It’s a reproductive thing. Something about ensuring a strong line, that only alphas birth alphas. Drinking from them would be like—” Steve shrugs, trying to find an analogy that fits, “—I don’t know, draining someone with severe anemia. Your system is going to want to purge the blood, hence the vomiting. It’ll make you sick, but shouldn’t kill you... unless you're already in a weakened state.” He raises an eyebrow pointedly.

“How do you know all of this?”

The heaviness of grief not yet processed swells inside Steve, and he shoves his fists into his pockets, setting his jaw and willing it back down. He’s never needed Phil’s advice and guidance more than right now. A flash of light spears the darkness of his mind and a ghost of a smile settles over his lips. Here he is admitting he can’t get by on his own, needing help and accepting it, even if it is from unorthodox sources. Maybe he has learned something after all; Phil would be proud. 

“Someone gave me a crash course in Lycanthropy.”

“Uh-huh. And speaking of wolf business, when did all this happen, anyway?” Bucky gestures to Steve’s body before he moves to the sink and starts rinsing his mouth. 

Steve watches the pink liquid swirl down the drain — the last traces of Tony’s infected blood washing away. The possibility of Tony turning as a result of an attack rather than by choice is reprehensible, and Steve will destroy Rumlow for what he did, but some small, secret part of him mourns the lost chance, the _only_ chance he had to be with Tony. Guilt at the thought burns in his gut as the water runs clear, and he drags his thoughts back to Bucky.

“The first full moon after my twenty-fifth birthday. I don’t know why, but it just takes that long for the latent wolf genes to, uh…”

“Activate?” Bucky drys his mouth with the sleeve of his too-tight sweatshirt.

Smiling wryly, Steve keeps his eyes on Bucky’s face and away from the rippling muscles on full display through the thin, tortured shirt. He doesn’t need the added complication of desire getting in the way of what comes next. “Something like that. It’s the same for all of us.”

“That must have been a hell of a shock.”

Steve hums thoughtfully as the memories he tries so diligently to keep locked away break free and slice through him. It'd been traumatic, painful, and terrifying, and it had taken him far too many lunar cycles to even believe what was happening to him. He’d come painfully close to ending it all on more than one occasion, thinking he was losing his mind. But then Coulson found him... saved him. Steve still doesn’t know _how_ Phil tracked him down; all he ever said was he had a nose for such things. Steve always thought it was a wolf joke and never pressed, but now, he wishes he had. Every shred of information he doesn’t have feels like a weapon Rumlow could use against him.

“It wasn’t the highlight of my life. I did things that, well… let’s just say you’re not the only one in this room with ghosts. But I can’t change the past, so mostly I try not to think about it.” Steve shakes his head, trying to dispel the images rushing through his mind. If Bucky's a monster, then so is he. “Anyway, I think my plan will work. Alpha blood is different. I’m not missing the protein, so I shouldn’t make you sick.”

“Think and shouldn’t?” The corners of Bucky’s lips pull up slowly.

“Look, if you’ve got a better idea…”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just—” Bucky’s eyes drift over to Tony, the smile creeping higher “—a bit of deja vu.”

Steve ignores the painful twinging in his chest, watching Bucky’s eyes go soft and linger on the prone form in the bed. “We should probably put the theory to the test, a small taste first, just in case I’m wrong.” He holds out his finger. “Try it. If it doesn’t work, we’ll go to plan B.”

Bucky’s gaze flicks back to Steve, and he cocks his head, considering. Steve tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. “There is no plan B, is there?”

“Just try it,” Steve huffs, holding his hand higher.

Bucky closes the distance between them in a blink. The touch of cool fingers wrapping around Steve’s wrist sends a shiver racing down his spine before flaring into molten heat, low in his belly. Bucky lifts Steve’s hand slowly, _slowly_ , until a sharp point presses into the soft pad of his index finger. Bucky raises his head and stares at the single, shiny crimson bead welling up from the wound. Steve’s breath catches as Bucky slides the finger into his mouth and suckles gently. 

A low moan bursts from Steve’s throat, and he coughs roughly, trying to cover as prickling heat charges up his neck and fills his cheeks. White noise roars through his head as his body has recollections all of its own. The phantom touch of Bucky’s mouth on his body, on his lips, around his cock, sucking and licking and breaking him to pieces thrums through him all at once. He’s about to shatter again, to spill untouched to nothing but memories, but then Bucky’s tongue swipes over his finger, the wetness surrounding it disappears, and the spell is broken.

He’d almost forgotten the pleasure of Bucky’s bite, of his mouth, of _him,_ but everything has come rushing back in an instant, leaving him dizzy with desire. Blood throbs in his cock and pounds in his ears as he runs his thumb over the spot where the fang had pierced, seeing a tiny, grey pinprick. He clears his throat and tries to keep his voice even. "So?"

Bucky’s eyes are dark and unreadable when they lift to Steve’s. “You taste different than you used to,” he murmurs. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, leaving a glistening trail that Steve wants to sink his own teeth into. 

“Different how?”

“Tart instead of sweet. But you’re right; there’s no bitterness.” Bucky scowls at Steve’s small smirk. “If you say I told you so…”

Steve’s lips curve up into a real smile, the tension between them thawing, familiarity making the tightness in his chest ease. “When have I ever said that to you?” He ignores the deepening scowl, sobering as he holds out his arm. “Is the same place okay?”

Bucky’s gaze fixes on the scar, and after a moment of hesitation, he shakes his head softly. “I’m not sure I can do this, Steve. Besides, you said it yourself; the food poisoning won’t kill me. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“You don’t _have_ a day or two, Buck,” Steve snaps, frustration sharpening his words as he lowers his arm. “You look like you haven’t fed in weeks. There isn’t a single speck of blue left in your eyes, your lips are dry and cracked, and I don’t think it’s possible for you to get any paler. If you don’t drink soon, you’ll die. You forget how well I know you.”

Gray eyes turn stormy. “There seems to be some things you _have_ forgotten,” Bucky retorts, dropping his gaze pointedly to the swell of denim at Steve’s groin.

“No, I remember just fine,” Steve breathes, steeling himself and pressing closer to Bucky. “And it’s okay. I know what you need, and I can give it to you.” He’s not sure if it’s the adrenaline or desire coursing through him, but his hand trembles as he trails it over the familiar rises and dips of Bucky’s stomach before coming to rest against the straining fabric between his hips. 

Steve winces as cool fingers wrap around his wrist, squeezing hard enough that he knows they're going to leave bruises. Bucky wrenches Steve’s hand away and growls his name in warning. The air shifts, hanging heavy and charged as they stand, locking eyes and wills until, in a blink, the pressure on Steve’s skin disappears, and Bucky is gone from the room.

The world streaks around Steve as he races after Bucky, speeding down the stairs and to the entranceway, propelling himself forward, leveraging off the floor and flying at Bucky. His warm chest connects with a cool back, and the momentum sends them sprawling to the floor in a tangle of grappling limbs. The hard body under him twists and flips over, but Steve locks his thighs either side of Bucky’s, bracketing him, keeping him pinned in place. His hands find Bucky’s wrists and force them down to the floor beside his head, cushioned by the halo of dark hair. A thrill shoots through Steve, strong enough now to hold his own. 

“You need to feed,” Steve spits each word out on its own, low and dark, a whisper from Bucky’s face.

“Get off me before I do something we’ll both regret,” Bucky growls back.

The gravel in the words is familiar, Steve would always hear it right before Bucky would scoop him up and carry him to bed, and spend all night splintering him into a million pieces of indescribable pleasure.

“I know what I’m asking. I wish I didn’t have to, but I need you,” Steve loosens his grip before lifting his hands away completely, rocking back on his heels, straddling Bucky’s thighs and raising his arm. He runs his fingers over the old bite mark. “And you need this.”

There’s a growl, and then strong hands are clamping around Steve’s waist, and he’s being lifted from the floor like he weighs nothing more than he did all those years ago. In a heartbeat, they're falling back onto the couch, and Steve folds his legs either side of Bucky’s, pushing him into the cushioned backrest, settling in his lap. He can feel Bucky’s arousal pressing against him, a mirror to his own, and Steve rocks against it hesitantly.

“Steve…”

Steve raises his arm again. “ _Please._ ”

Cool fingers trail over the scars before Bucky leans forward. There’s a quick, sharp scratch, barely noticeable, two pinpricks of pain, and Steve knows the sharp teeth have barely pierced his skin. When Bucky leans back, Steve frowns at the slow trickle of blood emerging from the reopened wounds. At this rate, it’ll take hours for Bucky to get what he needs.  
  
Steve huffs, annoyance clipping his words, “What are you doing?”

Bucky’s eyes are all black but for a ring of silver as he pitches forward again, flattens his tongue and drags it up, lifting the blood off warm skin. Steve fights to keep his breathing even as Bucky laps at him, slowly, lazily, like they have all the fucking time in the world. 

“You need to drink.” Steve grinds down in Bucky’s lap, trying to trigger vampire instincts, pressing the buttons he had discovered and committed to memory so long ago. “C’mon, Buck, I know how much you want it, how much you _need_ it.” His nails scrape down the tight sweatshirt.  
  
Steve is rewarded with a harsh gasp as he rakes over a pebbled nipple, but when his hand meets the straining fabric of Bucky’s pants, and forces in between their bodies, cupping and squeezing the rigid cock hidden beneath, Bucky growls and sinks his fangs back into the tender flesh of Steve’s arm, quick and deep, his lips forming a tight seal, latching on and drinking down the blood as it rushes from Steve’s body.

“Yeah, that’s it, that’s better,” Steve whispers breathlessly, rubbing his own throbbing cock against Bucky. For a moment, he lets himself forget — forget the past, forget the pain, forget that if he’s not careful, he will end up alone and broken all over again — and just lets himself _feel._ He threads his fingers through the long locks at Bucky’s nape, still as silky soft as he remembers.  
*  
He can feel the tension in Bucky’s body coiling tighter, fresh blood warming his skin, and the desperate sounds punching from his chest like he’s shattering to pieces under Steve’s eager hand. Still, he can tell Bucky's fighting the pleasure, like taking the blood is enough. But Steve knows better. Leaning close, he lets his hot breath caress Bucky's cool ear, whispering, “Always loved the feelin’ of you suckin' on me when you'd come.”

The vibrations from Bucky’s moan shudder through Steve, and his motions become erratic, his hand working, kneading the now-damp fabric, squeezing roughly, wishing he could have Bucky’s cock in his hand, flicking his thumb over the head, filling his mouth with the taste he's never forgotten. “You’re so close, shit, Buck, I can feel it... I can feel you leaking.”

Bucky jerks up, almost sending Steve toppling off his lap and onto the floor, but he grips the back of Bucky’s neck, holding him in place as he lifts his hand from Bucky’s cock and grinds down hard with his own. His hips stutter, moving frantically, his own cock straining, his knot swelling, the fabric pressing in on him painfully. “Fuck, yeah, Buck, need you to come... come for me... _please_.”

Bucky stiffens under him as the sharp fangs retract from his arm, and Steve cries out, his cock pulsing, painting the inside of his jeans with his release as Bucky’s hands dig into his ass, pulling him closer, fucking up against him, the painful pressure choking his trapped cock as it spits messily against his skin. His need to keep his eyes open, to watch Bucky’s beautiful face as he comes, is drowned out by his own shuddering waves of ecstasy tearing through him. With eyes squeezed tightly closed, he hears the strangled cry of his name before he collapses forward against Bucky’s chest. The world spins, whether from bliss or bloodloss, Steve’s not sure, but he pulls wet gasps into his burning lungs and lets it dance around him.  
**  
The feel of his arm being raised and the slow swipe of a gentle tongue over it finally makes him drag his eyes open, and sit up. The wound has closed, but Bucky laps at him, carefully cleaning the mess of red staining his skin. Once it's clean, Bucky leans back, and Steve tries not to grimace at the sight of his own blood smeared around Bucky's mouth and dripping down his chin. 

Now the moment has passed, doubt floods through Steve, and he shifts nervously in Bucky’s lap. “I, uh, we should probably clean up.” He moves awkwardly, climbing off Bucky and straightening, swaying slightly and trying to ignore the uncomfortable mess in his pants. “You should go first. If Tony wakes up and sees you like that, he’s likely to pass right back out again.”

Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, keeps his eyes trained on Steve’s face. “And yet, you don’t seem to mind it.”

“I’ve seen it before. And it’s my blood,” Steve adds as an afterthought. “I’ll wait with Tony.” 

Without a backward glance, Steve turns and heads up the stairs, ignoring the painful, rapid beating of his heart _. Fuck, fuck, fuck_. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Now, Bucky probably thinks… _fuck._ Who knows what Bucky is thinking. That he’s using the impending wolf attack as an excuse to get close again? He probably looked so fucking pathetic. An alpha, leader of his pack, rutting on a vampire, begging for it. 

Steve comes to a stop in the doorway, grabbing the frame to steady himself, and watches the rhythmic rise and fall of Tony’s chest. When did things get so complicated? Just when he thinks he's got a handle on things, life throws a curveball at him… or two. 

But then, is it really that complicated? Bucky is going to leave, he said so himself. Steve hadn’t been reason enough to stick around for before and he’s not now. And Tony… Tony can never be his. He can’t bond with a human. Even without a pack to appease, he could never be with Tony, not like _that._ He’d hurt him, make him sick.

No. As it turns out, life isn’t complicated after all… just cruel.

“Everything okay?” 

Startling at Bucky’s voice sounding directly behind him, Steve jerks forward, into the room. “Uh, yeah. He looks fine. His heart and breathing are still steady, and all of the blood’s been infused. If everything went according to plan, he should be waking up soon.”

As if on cue, a low groan sounds from the bed, and Bucky is instantly beside it. “It’s okay, Tony, take it easy. You’re okay.”

That familiar ache is back in Steve’s chest, but he lets the relief of seeing Tony’s eyelashes fluttering open push it away. 

“Am I dead?” Tony croaks the words out before wincing and swiping his tongue over dry, cracked lips. 

Steve laughs softly as he approaches the bed. “No, but I — oh, _fuck!”_ He doubles over, clutching his head, squeezing his skull, desperately trying to stop the screaming ripping through him. _Natasha._ “I’m sorry—” he backtracks to the door, hands still clamped on his head “—I have to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Turning on his heel, he races down the stairs and through the front door, slamming it behind him. Surrounded by white, his legs stretch out, picking up speed, the world blurring around him as he lets the link guide him home.


	14. Chapter 14

"Stop fussing, Tony. I need to remove your cannula, and you need to rest." Bucky places a hand atop the blankets piled high over Tony's chest, keeping him pinned to the mattress, thwarting his efforts to sit up.

As if sensing he's fighting a losing battle, Tony huffs out a frustrated breath but relaxes back down on to the bed. "Why was Steve here?"

Carefully, Bucky unhooks the tubes connecting Tony to the machine before removing the IV and closing the wound with a drop of his blood. He stares down at the small mark left behind. A heaviness settles in his gut. It's almost like the universe is mocking him, showing him his legacy. All he ever does is leave scars, some more visible than others.  
  
"He came to ask for my help and to offer me his."

"Well, that's as clear as mud. Please don't tell me after everything you've reverted to cryptic crossword mode," Tony groans, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing the back of his hand over them.

Bucky lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress, careful not to touch Tony. Now the immediate threat of shifting no longer lingers over Tony's head, Bucky's focus has settled down to a more familiar target. Images of last night flash through his mind, complete with the soundtrack of gasped moans and desperate pleas. He knows he shouldn't have given in to temptation, he knew it before he did, but the flames of desire were flamed by jealousy, and Bucky had wanted to claim Tony, to be the source of his pleasure... just as Steve had been. But he'd been wrong, selfish, and now, the least he can do is to not lead Tony on anymore. Once this wolf business is dealt with, he has to leave, and he doesn't want to hurt Tony any more than he has to... any more than he has already.

He lifts the corner of a well-loved blanket, trailing his fingers across the threadbare texture. "There's been some dissent in the shifter ranks. The dog that attacked you has left Steve's pack and started his own. Steve thinks he's planning an attack. He asked us to go and stay out at his place until the full moon."

"Us? As in both of us? Why? Who's the target of the attack? Jesus, how long was I out?"

Bucky allows himself a small smile despite himself. Tony must be feeling better if his mouth has powered back up to normal speed. He stares over at Tony, at the beautiful picture he paints reclined in bed; cheeks pink against the white linen, and his dark hair spiking out at odd and adorable angles. In another world, under different circumstances, Bucky could imagine a life filled with lazy mornings just like this. Well, maybe not the blood transfusions. But the thought of Tony in his bed, sleepy and sated after a night of overwhelming pleasure, has an almost forgotten warmth thawing his cold chest. And maybe in this other world, he could even have Steve back in his arms — not because Steve thinks he _has_ to be, but because he _wants_ to be. Bucky blinks himself out of the useless fantasy. There's no point dreaming of things that can never be; it'll just make leaving all the harder when the time comes. And it _will_ come.

"He isn't sure who the target is — his pack, you or me. But since this new faction can shift at will, Steve's afraid the strength of his pack won't hold up if they attack before the full moon. He's worried he can't protect his pack or you without my help."

"He's worried about me?" The pink in Tony's cheek bleeds into red, and Bucky shoves down the jealousy burning up his throat.

"Of course he is," Bucky murmurs. "Judging by how he looks at you, he's already halfway to head over heels. Surely you've noticed?"

"I, ah, no," Tony stammers. It's the first time Bucky's seen him lost for words since they'd met. "That's not... he isn't... we've only…" He clamps his mouth shut, blinking into space for a long moment before his brows draw together and he turns shrewd eyes on Bucky.

"How do you know what he looks like when he's in love?" 

Bucky sets his jaw, memories slicing through him, sharp as glass shards. He can't bring himself to say it, to admit the truth. To say he knows every one of Steve's faces, every one of his sighs and laughs and moans. To confess that he'd thrown it all away for nothing. But he doesn't have to. Despite his silence, Tony's eyes go wide as he breathes out a soft _'oh,'_ understanding lighting up his eyes. 

Bucky stands quickly, only barely resisting the urge to disappear from the room before Tony can ask the questions he can see dancing in those curious eyes. With this morning's events still fresh in his mind, he's not even sure what his answers would be. Finding out Steve's a wolf should have been the end of things, instead, it hadn't dampened his desire, nor affected his feelings. Everything has just become... complicated.   
  
"You should eat, you'll need your strength." He frowns at his words, an echo of Steve's. "I can make you something…" he trails off, recalling Tony's empty refrigerator. "Healthy hangover eggs?"

Taking advantage of Bucky's new position, Tony sits up, ignoring the disapproving scowl. "I don't— _oh!"_ He gasps, grabbing his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He sways slightly before sagging back against the headboard and throwing a hand out onto the bed to steady himself. _  
_

Instinctively, Bucky reaches out a hand, but curls his fingers back in on themselves, and lowers his arm to his side. He needs to break this protective streak Tony rouses in him, or fight it at the very least. Tony survived without him all these years, and he'll have to do it again. No good can come of breeding too much familiarity, of making Tony get used to him, or worse, to come to depend on him. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, just uh, got a little light-headed and kind of... "Tony trails off before shaking his head. A strange look flits across his face before his lips draw up slowly, seductively. "I'm fine. But, I, uh, I can think of something else I'd rather have in my mouth right now," he says, licking his lips as he reaches out to wrap his fingers around Bucky's wrist.

Bucky flinches at the heat pressing into him. His eyes narrow on Tony's face, darting from the too flushed cheeks to the beads of sweat dotting his brow, before coming to fix on glassy eyes. When had that happened? He'd looked perfectly fine not a minute ago. He bends over Tony, laying a hand over his forehead and grimaces. "Jesus, Tony, you're burning up."

"I'm fine," Tony insists, tugging on Bucky's wrist, trying to pull him to bed. "But I'd be even better if you cooled me down, maybe from the inside out…" He uses his free hand to push off the blanket pile.

Bucky's heart drops like a stone as his body sinks back onto the bed. The transfusion mustn't have worked. Tony is still feverish, and, if the impressive swell pressing out from the confines of his sweatpants is anything to go by, his libido is still in overdrive. Heat bites at his skin as Tony climbs onto his lap, too-warm arms encircling his neck. Bucky flinches but doesn't pull away. He can feel the tremors skittering through Tony's body, and smell the strange scent burning off of his skin. Everything they'd done had been for naught. Tony is going to turn anyway.

"It's going to be okay." The lack of conviction in his own voice makes Bucky wince, and he wraps his arms around Tony's shaking body, pulling him close, steeling himself to stop from pulling away from the fevered skin. Tony leans into the embrace, nuzzling his face against the cool reprieve of Bucky's neck, whimpering softly. There has to be something else he can do; something to keep Tony _human..._

"Oh, god, you feel amazing," Tony moans, dragging his cheek against Bucky's before claiming his mouth.

Bucky knows he should pull away, knows Tony's desire isn't wholly his, some part driven by the primal Lycan instincts taking control of his mind. But Tony's tongue is licking at him, moaning like it's his favorite flavor, and Bucky just crumbles, growling into Tony's hot, willing mouth, tasting every inch his eager tongue can reach. 

It's only when Tony's hand moves down to palm at the borrowed sweatpants —rubbing over the straining fabric just like Steve had done not an hour before— that Bucky breaks the kiss with a hiss. He cups Tony's jaw gently and pulls him back, ignoring the plea in those dark eyes. 

"This isn't a good idea."

Tony cranes his neck forward, trying to recapture Bucky's lips, his fingers scrambling up Bucky's scalp, locking around long strands and trying to tug him forward. "It's the best idea I've ever had," Tony counters, trying futilely to overpower the hold on him. "I want you, Bucky. I'm literally _aching_ with how much I want you." He rocks his hips, grinding down quick and hard, and Bucky curses, releasing Tony's jaw to grip his waist, holding him still. Bucky had acquired a lot of willpower over his hundred years, but even he has his limits.

Seizing the opportunity, Tony lurches forward, clamping his mouth on the crook of Bucky's neck, sucking wantonly.  
  
"Fuck, _Tony,"_ Bucky grinds out, the threads of his restraint unraveling as the warm, wet tongue slides over his cool skin and makes him throb. 

"I _need_ you, _please_." Tony's voice is stretched thin, brittle with unmet need.

The sound echoes through Bucky's body, stirring his instincts, his own desire barely held in check. He _could_ take Tony, because _oh, fuck,_ how he _wants_ to. But even if Tony forgave him later, he'd never be able to forgive himself. 

Bucky lifts Tony easily and sets him down on the nest of blankets, and Tony stares up at him reproachfully, blinking wetly. He scrubs his head side to side as he reaches out, anchoring his hands around Bucky's wrists. "No, Bucky, _please."_

"Shh, it's alright, Tony. You're burning up, we need to cool you down," Bucky says softly, soothingly, "and then… and then we'll figure out the next step when we get to it," he mutters. Because what the fuck is the next step? Will he stay like this until the full moon? Is he going to get better or _worse?_

Bucky tugs off the sweat-damp sweatshirt —with Tony doing his best to help untangle himself from the fabric— before reaching for his pants. Tony whines and grinds against Bucky's hand as he pulls them down over narrow hips, sliding them down over the dark briefs, to his knees, then stalls. The unfamiliar scent Bucky had picked up earlier floods the air, no longer dampened by the thick fabric. Bucky's eyes narrow on the wetness coating Tony's thighs, confusion making him pause. _What the hell..._

_"Buckyyyy,"_ Tony cries as he cups the hard curve of his cock visible through his sodden underwear, moaning softly, rocking his hips into his touch. "I want you inside me, _please."_

Bucky can feel his own cock straining, throbbing, leaking. His body and mind both urging him to take Tony hard against the bed, fucking into the tight, welcoming heat he knows lurks beneath that wet scrap of fabric. But he also knows that would be selfish pleasure only. Tony needs more than he can give. He needs… 

Bucky hisses. 

Bucky drags the pants off Tony's legs and tosses them onto the floor. "I need you to do something for me. Do you trust me?"

Tony nods sharply, squeezing himself with a trembling hand.

"I need you to stay there, right there, and I'll be back in a minute."

" _No!_ I can't wait, I _can't_ ," Tony whines, a breath away from a sob. 

"Hey, shh, it's okay," Bucky murmurs, leaning down to gently brush the hair off Tony's face. "Don't worry; everything's going to be okay. I'll be right back, with… help."

Tony's only answer is a pitiful whine, his hips still working in small abortive thrusts against his hand.

Bucky takes one last look down at the bed before he speeds from the room, down the stairs, and through the door. He slams it harder than he means to, grumbling as a clump of snow breaks free from the impact, and comes raining down on him from the roof. Dusting it off impatiently, he's two steps clear of the house before he collides with a warm, solid expanse of wolf-scented chest. Strong hands reach out and grab his shoulders as he hisses, his brain taking a moment to register the new scent of Steve. He bites back the automatic response as Steve's hands lift.

"Where are you going?" 

Bucky frowns at the dark tone of suspicion coating Steve's words. "I was coming to find you."

"Why? And—" Steve leans close, pulling in a long breath "—why do you smell like you're..." he leans back, eyebrows drawing down, eyes turning stormy.

"Like I'm _what?"_

"Like you're in heat." Steve sniffs at him again, pressing closer this time, tracing the scent down his neck.

 _"Heat?_ What the hell—" Bucky jolts as Steve's tongue licks over the place Tony had been rubbing against only moments before. His cock twitches traitorously, and he groans before grabbing a tight fistful of Steve's hair and jerking his head back. Bucky's eyes fix on the inviting arch of Steve's neck, feeling his fangs start to extend, his body ready for more— more blood, more pleasure, more _Steve._ But now is _not_ the time.

Bucky drags his eyes away before releasing Steve's hair. _"I_ don't... it's Tony."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i. Massive, huge, giant, cosmic thanks (no really, allll the thanks) to FestiveFerret, without whom, this chapter would not have been posted and this story would be languishing in WIPmode forevermore. (Also for smut-diving to fix all my things. Again. You really are the MVP of word-fixing.)
> 
> iii. The amazingly sweet and phenomenally talented [HundredsThousands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hundredthousands) made me the most incredible fanart of our boys which I completely do not deserve but shall accept and drool over anyway! Thank you so much, HT! <3<3<3 It's embedded in the story below so you can all ooh and ahh over the pretties with me!
> 
> iv. This chapter features a lot of smut. The magic little portkeys are in place. ".." is the start of sexy times, and you can Ctrl+F to find "#" to skip to the end of the thrusting and such if so desired (or like.. scroll until you see it on mobile, I guess? idk.)

“This can’t… It’s not…” Steve’s eyes dart to the bed before flicking back up to Bucky, but the vision of Tony, almost naked, face down, grinding his hips into the mattress is seared into his mind. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“I was coming to get you to help him, so if you have no idea what’s going on, we’re all fucked.”

Steve’s heart is a jackhammer under his ribs as he tries to make sense of what his senses are telling him. Tony certainly smells like wolfkind now, familiar but somehow different. The honeyed scent filling the air is like nothing he’s ever known, sheathing his skin, settling in his lungs and filling his head — triggering something inside him, something deep and primal , as strong and inescapable as the pull of the moon. 

“The fresh blood didn’t work. This is some kind of wolf thing, it has to be,” Bucky mutters, every word ringing with dejected frustration like he counts whatever’s happening to Tony as a personal failure.

“He can’t be...” Steve shakes his head even as his gaze is drawn back to Tony, and this time he can’t force himself to look away. “He’s human . This can’t be the blood. I don’t understand. This isn’t possible.” Tony can’t be an omega. Steve would have known . He would have scented it before now; he would have felt it. He’s been a lot closer to Tony than this, has tasted him for fuck’s sake, but he’d smelled human then, delicious, but human. Something has changed. No, somehow, everything has changed.

“What’s not possible?” Bucky’s voice is hard, but his eyes are soft, not straying from the writhing, whimpering form on the bed. 

Possessiveness flares white-hot in Steve, a match to gasoline, roaring through him, consuming him. He wants to bow over Tony’s body, shield him from Bucky’s eyes. To drive into him, knot him, fill him, claim him . Tony’s sweet, heady scent is triggering instincts previously unknown but inescapable, and Steve can feel his knot throbbing to life, straining against his jeans. 

“—Steve? Hey, focus! What’s not possible?”

“I, uh, ah… if I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s an omega. But omegas don’t turn; they’re born . Being bitten wouldn’t have done this to him.”

Tony drags his face over the cotton pillowcase, leaving a damp trail of spit as he turns toward them, blinking slowly as if coming out of a daze. When dark eyes finally find focus, a trembling hand reaches up, but Tony doesn’t shift his position or cease rutting against the mattress. “Please, either of you, both of you, I don’t care, but please, please, someone fuck me,” he whines, each word stretched thin with need. “I can’t - I can’t… I - ah - ah - ahh! ” Tony’s back arches beautifully as the long, lean muscles in his body constrict and shudder, and Steve, finally understanding what’s happening, squeezes his eyes closed and clenches his hands into fists as Tony comes. His moans peter out into frustrated whimpers, and Steve can hear him moving against the bed again. “Please,” he sobs wetly. The broken sound compels Steve's eyes to open again, his gaze tracking the tears of frustration as they well and spill over, dripping down pink-tinged cheeks. “Please, please —”

Bucky falls to his knees beside the bed. “It’s okay, Tony, it’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, running his hands through Tony’s hair gently. But when he turns his eyes on Steve, all traces of tenderness are gone. “If it’s not the bite, then what the hell is wrong with him?”

Steve matches Bucky’s dark look, but inside there’s the flickering of light, a small ember of hope, a possibility he doesn’t dare look at too closely lest guilt burns it out. “I don’t know. It looks like he’s—” he breaks off, swallowing roughly. “It looks like he’s in heat.” 

Bucky’s face remains impassive for a moment before confusion pulls at his eyebrows, the deep lines creasing his perfect face. “Like a dog?”

Steve bites back the ‘ fuck you’ and throws him a withering look instead. "Like a wolf. ”

Bucky’s answering expression is easily translated: Like there’s a difference. “Can you fix it? Yes or no?”

“Yes. No… I don’t know.” Steve’s annoyed exhale is drowned out by Tony’s desperate moaning, coming quicker and louder now. The sound reverberates through him, calling out to him. His shoulders tighten and lift as he fights the physical pull to go to Tony, to take what he wants, to give Tony what he needs. It’s a hard-won, narrowly-claimed victory. “Remember how I told you about the protein deficiency?” At Bucky’s nod, Steve continues. “Well, when it drops to a certain level in an omega, it triggers a heat. Triggers this.” He nods toward Tony. “The only way to fix it is to… ah, share my protein with him.”

“So do it. Give him what he needs. It’s a blood thing, right? It’s why he made me sick.”

“Uh, this is, no… it’s not a blood thing,” Steve mumbles. As realization blooms in light eyes, color races through Steve’s skin, burning a path from his cheeks to his chest, and he tries not to fidget under Bucky’s incredulous stare.

“Seriously? You have to fuck him to fix him? You’re really telling me Lycans have healing come?”

Steve squirms on the spot, wishing he could speed from the room, or that the floor would just open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole. Bucky’s reaction isn’t unexpected, hell, he’d had a remarkably similar one when Coulson had sat him down and gone through the finer points of Lycan biology. Still, it doesn’t make it any less mortifying now it’s actually happening. “You need blood to survive, Tony needs… something else. Look, I know it’s fucked up. But it’s not supposed to be like this ,” Steve snaps, gesturing toward Tony, now trying to find fresh relief against the messed mattress. “All I know is his body will absorb the protein, and the symptoms will go away. But that’s only if he is an omega. If he’s not, it could make things much, much worse.”

Bucky glares up at Steve. “How much fucking worse can he get?”

A strip of soft afternoon light, diffused by the whiteout, glows around the drawn blind and falls over the bed. It caresses the sheen of sweat clinging to Tony’s body, making his olive skin glisten enticingly. It would be a stunning sight if not for the way his entire frame is twitching and jerking on the mattress. His groans and grunts are muffled by the pillow he's scrubbing his face against.

Steve sinks to his knees beside Bucky. Tony bites at the pillow, his fists gripping and twisting the sheet, and Steve’s resolve cracks. He runs his fingers over the dewy skin, lifting them from the scorching surface immediately as Tony jerks away from his touch, grunting. Steve’s gut tightens as he drags his eyes to Bucky. “He’s burning up. Was he sick before you gave him the blood?”

Bucky shakes his head. “He was fine. Well, other than wolf-sickness. Isn’t this normal? Part of a heat?”

Fear bolts through Steve, icy fingers of dread twisting around his heart. He’s only seen this once before, and he’d been too young at the time to understand what was happening... to understand what it meant. The fever came and not twenty-four hours later, she was gone. And he was alone. 

Uncertainty tears at him. What if Tony isn’t an omega? What if this is a side effect from the transfusion, or from Bucky taking Tony’s blood, some kind of cross-contamination? He’s never turned anyone before, never seen anyone turned. Hell, he’s never even seen a heat before. Maybe this is normal? What if he knots Tony and he kills him? What if he doesn’t knot Tony, and he dies anyway? Steve’s chest seizes painfully. He doesn’t know what the protein will do to a human, Phil had just told him in no uncertain terms to never, ever mate with one. But, he does know what will happen if Tony is an omega and needs the protein and doesn’t get it. He can’t take that risk.

“Please, please, please …” Tony shifts on to his side, curling into a fetal position, tremors wracking his body.

“It’s okay, Tony. I’m going to help you.” Mind set, Steve stands and begins to disrobe, focusing on the practical task rather than the storm of desire, revulsion, shame, and guilt whiting out his brain. His shirt falls beside his feet before he kicks off his shoes. 

Tony may hate him for this later, but at least he’ll be alive to hate him... if he's making the right choice.

Bucky’s gaze shadows his movements, pressing in on him like a physical weight, making his skin prickle with awareness. For the first time since he transformed, self-consciousness creeps through his veins. He’s being stupid, he knows he is, but he can’t shake it. As much as he likes the way he looks now —all hard lines and corded muscles, it's the body he’d dreamed of having when he was smaller— he recalls vividly the way Bucky had lusted after his small frame. How big hands would wrap almost wholly around his waist while cool lips burned over every inch of his skin, how Bucky would wait until Steve had offered up his body for Bucky’s pleasure and nourishment long after hungry eyes had devoured every inch of him.

His cock jerks at the memory, loosing a stream of precome into his jeans despite emptying not long before, because Bucky has always been able to turn him on easier than a light switch, and some things about him the years haven’t changed at all. 

Clenching his jaw, ignoring the anxiety rippling through him, he unfastens his jeans, hooks his thumbs into the waistband, and pushes them down in one smooth motion before kicking the fabric away and turning his eyes on Bucky, waiting for the reaction.

But Bucky’s eyes don’t chase the flash of motion, remaining fixed on his. Something flickers across that beautiful face, dark and dangerous as they stand in too-sharp silence, and Steve’s stomach does a sickening somersault. The complete disinterest knocks him off-balance. After this morning… he falters. After this morning, what? Had he expected Bucky to suddenly want him again? The thought is a mirror to his own desire, reflecting the ugly truth back at him. He had been ruined the minute he’d seen those light eyes staring at him through the bars, and this morning, losing himself in the pleasure of Bucky after so long, all the carefully constructed walls he’d built around his heart had turned to rubble in an instant. And that small, secret part of him, the part that had always been in love with Bucky, had hoped after this morning, Bucky would remember how good they were together, realize he’d made a mistake, would decide to stay. But Steve had only been fooling himself. Maybe Bucky’s lack of interest is a blessing in disguise. Knowing would only make it hurt more; either now, to know Bucky doesn’t like his body, or later , knowing that Bucky does, but it’s still not enough to make him stay. 

The silence stretches and breaks as Bucky’s gaze flicks to Tony briefly before he stands and brushes past Steve, heading for the door. “I’ll wait outside.”

Bucky's gone in a blink, and Steve ignores the way the room feels colder somehow without him in it. But the ache of loss is better than the anxiety of trying to get through this with an audience. The last thing he needs is judgment from Bucky, or worse, pointers.

The bed dips under Steve’s weight as he climbs onto the mattress and positions himself behind Tony, so close he can feel the heat rising from his fevered skin. Anticipation throbs through him, leaking from his cock, sparking a pang of disgust. He has to do this to keep Tony alive, but he should not be taking pleasure in any of it. But his brain knowing that doesn't seem to be helping with his body's reaction. Despite drawing a steadying breath, he can’t stop the trembling in his hand as he slides it over Tony’s chest and brings his own flush against Tony’s burning back. 

Tony’s reaction is immediate and intense, thrashing on the bed, struggling to break contact. “ No, no, no! ”

The odd feeling of air being displaced, like a phantom breeze in the closed-off room, is the only acknowledgment of Bucky’s return. Appearing back in the doorway, the snow dusting his dark hair and shirt is the only sign he’d ever left. “What’s wrong? I thought you said fucking him would save him.”

“It will, and I obviously haven’t fucked him yet. Jesus, Bucky, you’ve been gone two seconds.” 

“Hot, hot, too hot,” Tony mumbles, writhing on the bed, pushing away from Steve’s body, too far gone to form complete sentences.

Steve shuffles backward on the bed, moving away from Tony’s body, and watches as he calms instantly. Steve reaches out, lets his hand hover a moment before it lands on Tony’s hip. Immediately, Tony jerks away from his touch, crying and scrubbing his head on the pillow, distressed. Steve recalls his hand and runs it through his hair, ignoring the embarrassment creeping into his cheeks as he watches Tony calm.

Since his first transformation, Steve has felt the biological urges thrumming through him; the need to take an omega. His body’s desire to rut and claim and breed had been overwhelming at first, but he’s learned to control it, to ignore it for the most part. He hadn’t known if he’d ever have the chance to take an omega, but never had he expected to take one, to take his first, like this. An omega who doesn’t seem to know what he is, too strung out to string a sentence together, and too hot to accept his touch. 

“I’m going to need your help.”

Bucky’s eyebrows dart up. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have any of your magic protein, Rogers.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Steve fights to keep his voice even. He needs to at least sound like he knows what he’s doing, even if he has no idea if this is going to work. “I need you to lie on the bed.”

“And why would I do that?” 

“I’m too hot.”

Bucky lifts a single brow at the declaration before his eyes finally drop low, drifting lazily down Steve’s naked body, lingering on his aching cock before lifting back to his face. “And modest, too.”

“Fuck, Bucky, not like that,” Steve bites out, his face burning. He almost wishes Bucky had kept up with the casual disinterest because there can be no misreading the hunger in his gaze. “I, uh, my body temperature; I’m too hot. Tony can’t stand to let me touch him.”

“Uh-huh, I noticed that.”

“Your body temperature should off-set mine. I need you to, ah, hold him, cool him down while I…”

The tense silence rings loud as a church bell, and Steve’s heart leaps to his throat, seeing the answer rage in Bucky’s eyes before he even opens his mouth. “ No. ”

“Bucky…”

“I am not acting like a human-shaped air-conditioning unit while you fuck Tony.”

“Okay, fine,” Steve huffs, defensiveness sharpening his words. “If you have a better idea, I’m all ears. Otherwise, if you can’t help me… help him. He will die.”

The dark look that thunders over Bucky’s face as he takes a step toward the bed has Steve fighting the urge to flinch away. As if feeding off Bucky, the air in the room thickens, becomes charged, screaming danger so clearly Steve doesn’t need to see the murderous glint in Bucky’s eye, or the glimmer of light catching on extended fangs to know he’s sharing air with an apex predator. A shiver rolls down his spine, and he steals himself against his instinct to rise, to crouch over Tony, growl at Bucky and prepare for the fight. But the flash of white disappears as Bucky clenches his jaw and closes the distance to the bed in a heartbeat. 

Steve holds up a hand. “You have to take your clothes off.”

Bucky scowls but shucks his shirt without a word, flinging it onto the floor beside him.

“Uh, and your pants, too.”

Bucky hesitates, folding his arms over his chest.

“Jesus, Bucky, it’s not a big deal, you can leave your underwear on.” 

“I’m not wearing any.”

“Oh.” Steve’s eyes dart to the straining sweatpants of their own accord, and he clears his throat, curling his hands into fists and forcing himself to cross them over his chest, lifting away from the temptation to cup them over himself, to hide the effect that thought is having on him. “Ah. Well, Tony’s probably too out of it to care, and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. But, uh, this could take a while, and the more cool skin you have on offer, the better it will be for him.”

Bucky nods stiffly and pushes his pants down, the dark fabric giving way to light, muscular legs. The material puddles on the floor at his feet, and he kicks it away unconcernedly. 

Steve knows he shouldn’t look, knows he should keep his eyes on Bucky’s, but he can’t stop his gaze drifting down the smooth skin of Bucky’s chest, and lower, lower , until he finds the hard curve of Bucky’s cock. Even with the mess from this morning still clinging to his skin mixing with the fresh evidence of renewed desire, it’s still the most mouth-watering thing he’s ever seen. The memory of Bucky’s taste floods his mouth, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut before he can turn his face away. 

“Uh, lie on the bed, on your back. Tony needs to lie on you, chest to chest.”

Steve drags his eyes open, staring determinedly at the sheets, crumpled and bunched at his knees as he listens to Bucky follow his instructions. 

“Like this?”

It’s a sight to behold, Tony’s toned, olive-skinned body slotted so perfectly against Bucky’s pale, much broader one. Strong arms criss-cross Tony’s back like beautiful bindings as he mewls contentedly, nuzzling into Bucky’s neck, grinding down against the cool body beneath him.

Bucky must have removed the sodden scrap of underwear, because Tony's ass is bare, glistening, along with his thighs, dripping with slick. It takes Steve’s every last shred of strength to stop himself from rocking forward and burying his face between the wet cheeks, from licking and lapping at Tony until his tongue is coated and his belly is full.

“Uh, yeah,” Steve croaks huskily. “Just like that.” He knee-walks on the bed, settling in position between Tony’s legs folded up and tucked over Bucky’s spread ones, before faltering.

He’s never taken an omega before; he’s never taken anyone before. The sum of his whole sexual experience is tied up in being taken… by Bucky, and now, he’s going to have to take Tony while Bucky watches. Heat blisters through his veins. Oh, fuck. What if he can’t do it? What if he can’t come with Bucky watching, or worse, he comes the minute he slides into Tony? His heart punches against his ribcage painfully, his lungs emptying and refilling much, much too quickly.

“Is something wrong?” Bucky’s voice breaks through his spiraling thoughts. 

“Uh, no. I just need to see if he’s, uh, ready.” It’s a lie borne of procrastination. Steve can tell Tony’s more than ready from the wetness leaking from his lax hole, knows his body is open and waiting, but Steve needs a moment to prepare himself for what he’s about to do.

..

Tony whimpers when Steve slides two fingers into him slowly, taking his time to push in and spread him apart, feeling Tony’s body give under the pressure, opening eagerly. He drags his fingers free, staring down at them, coated in Tony’s slick. He wants to suck them into his mouth and lave them clean, but this isn’t about his pleasure, isn't about what he wants. He wraps his wet fingers around his cock, biting back the moan at the sensation, and guides himself to Tony’s entrance. 

The pretty, wrinkled rim smoothes as it stretches around him, sucking him in hungrily. He can’t drag his eyes away, watching, transfixed, as the wet hole eats up his cock as he slides in, agonizingly slowly, inch by inch until he’s fully swallowed up in Tony's body.

“Oh, fuck .” Steve digs his nails into his thighs, using the stinging pain to pull him back from the brink. Wholly encased inside the wet, velvety depths, he can feel every tiny movement as Tony shifts and clenches around him, so tight and warm and perfect as the pink rim flutters around the base of his cock as it throbs and fills, his knot swelling.

He wants to stay like this forever, nestled inside Tony, locked together like perfect puzzle pieces, but the contented mewling sounds muffled by Bucky’s neck bleed into whimpering moans, and Steve remembers why he’s inside Tony at all.

He draws out of Tony’s body as slowly as he pushed in, eyes eating up the sight of Tony’s hole clutching at him greedily, his cock messy with Tony’s arousal, only stopping when the flared head of his cock catches on the taut rim, tugging at Tony’s body from the inside out. Drifting somewhere between unconscious and wakefulness, Tony moans, long and loud, and clenches down, and Steve swears and drives back into the welcoming heat.

Steve can feel Bucky's eyes on him as he fucks into Tony. Each thrust is quicker, rougher than the last as he pistons his hips, instinct and need burning away his uncertainty and restraint. Every time he bottoms out inside Tony’s body, when they’re joined completely, when they’re nothing but shared slick skin and aching pleasure, a harsh gasp punches from Tony’s chest, blurring into a desperate whimpering moan as he draws out again.

His rhythm becomes erratic as he takes Tony, again and again, watching color bloom over the twin cheeks as his body slaps against them over and over. Pleasure ratchets higher with each snap of his hips, his lungs burning as he sucks in ragged gasps, fighting back the sounds of bliss battling to break free. Fully engorged, his knot ruts up against Tony’s struggling rim with each drive forward, seeking entrance, trying to stretch that tight, little ring enough to push inside. 

The spiral of heat in his gut turns molten and tightens, and Steve doesn't even try to stop the moan from tearing from his chest as he scrapes his nails up his thighs. He’s so close, so close...

“I thought you said this was going to take a while, it looks like you’re about to fill him already.” Bucky’s voice is low and breathless, thick with desire. 

The heavy mix of sex and sweat and the heady scent of Tony’s arousal blanketing the room makes Steve's head swim. He stares down at Bucky as he thrusts into Tony, but the retort dies on his lips. Tony's lax body jolts over Bucky's with the movement, and the realization that every driving thrust must be rubbing their cocks together bursts into Steve’s mind and pulls a whine from his throat. His eyes dart to the curve of Bucky’s belly where it dips down to the bed, fixing on the shiny trail of precome leaking over his skin and pooling on the bed below. Steve gasps, pulling out of Tony’s sloppy hole before stilling.

“Shut up and put your hands on his hips.”

“Why?”

“Fuck, Buck, just do it, please .”

A strangled sound blooms and catches in Bucky’s throat, setting off sparks under Steve’s skin; he had almost forgotten how much Bucky loved it when he said please, when he begged. For a heart-stopping moment, there's nothing but still silence, and Steve thinks Bucky’s going to ignore him or say no, but after three painful heartbeats, large cool hands come up to grip Tony’s hips. 

Steve covers Bucky’s hands with his own, his fingertips digging in hard enough to leave bruises even in Bucky’s skin as he uses cool hands to pull Tony back onto his cock, taking him as deep as he can, his knot stretching the rim almost wide enough to slip inside. 

Bucky curses, hips jerking under Tony, pushing him up, just as Steve sinks into him again. 

For a moment, their eyes lock, and Steve draws out enough to fuck back into Tony’s greedy hole, seeing the movement pulse through Bucky’s body beneath, and he can almost imagine he’s driving into Bucky — taking Bucky like Bucky has taken him so many, many times before.

“Oh, fuck, Bu— ” Steve bites off the word, but not before Bucky’s eyes fill with black, and his hips snap up again, pushing Tony hard back onto Steve’s cock.

The motion makes his cock nudge Tony's prostate, making him cry out, jolting him back into consciousness.

“Oh fuck, yes, please, please , uuuhhh, I need....” Tony cries, nails scraping ineffectually over Bucky’s chest. He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but Steve does. 

Bucky is grinding against Tony now, each movement driving him up, angling his body, and Steve can feel the head of his cock connecting with Tony’s prostate with every deep drive into his body. 

“ Please… please… ” Sweat glistens on Tony’s skin, pooling at the base of his spine, and Steve has to stop himself from leaning forward and lapping it up.

The begging flashes through him like a livewire, making his knot throb, the pressure bordering on unbearable. “It’s okay, Tony. I’m gonna take care of you," he grinds out between clenched teeth, his pleasure beginning to crest. "Gonna give you what you need, sweetheart, gonna make you feel so good."

Grasping Bucky’s wrists, Steve uses him to drag Tony backward, slamming their bodies together, forcing his knot past the straining skin. Tony shouts, the piercing, broken cry splitting the air as his tortured rim stretches wide around Steve’s knot before constricting, locking them together. 

As if just waiting for the connection to be made, Tony keens as his body tenses, shaking and shuddering as he comes. 

“Ahh, fuck! ” The stranglehold on Steve’s knot is enough to push him over the edge. Pleasure like he’s never known starts at the base of his cock and explodes outward, lightning striking and forking through him, burning through his nerves, setting off white noise behind his closed eyelids. Only his hands gripping Bucky’s, and the feel of Tony’s ass convulsing around his cock keeps him from shattering apart completely. He draws back, unable to pull out but incapable of staying still, before grinding back down as his pleasure continues to spark hot and raw through his body. “Oh, God, Tony. Fuck, yeah, just like that. Good boy, milk me, baby, take my come.”

The tension breaks in Steve’s body, and he slumps, tightening his grip on Bucky to avoid collapsing onto Tony. He can feel his cock pulsing, emptying into the needy heat of Tony’s ass as it quivers around him, milking another wave from his knot. Tony mewls softly as he lies on Bucky’s chest, his breathing slowing, his body calming.

Bucky clears his throat. His voice is strained. “Is that it? Can we get up now?” 

Steve shakes his head but doesn’t lift it, his every ounce of energy going into holding his body up, away from Tony's. All he wants to do is to collapse into a heap on the bed and sleep for twelve hours, but sleep will have to wait. “Can’t move until my knot goes down.”

“Knot?” Bucky sighs. “Do I even want to know?

Steve wraps his fingers around Bucky’s hand and lifts it, guiding it down to Tony’s entrance. Bucky’s fingers press in gently, sending another wave of come flowing into him. Steve gasps and rocks forward. 

“That’s you?”

Steve’s head nods jerkily. He can feel his knot throbbing as it drains inside Tony, and knowing Bucky can feel it, too, draws a soft whimper from his throat.

“You’re… locked together?” Bucky presses again, harder, digging into the sensitive knot, and Steve shudders as he fills Tony a little more. “And you’re still coming?”

Steve finally lifts his head and meets Bucky’s gaze. “Y-yes.”

“What does it feel like?”

“It feels like coming, but… different. More… endless waves of pleasure, less sharp peaks.”

“How long does it last?”

“Uh, it depends. It can take up — ” Steve’s voice breaks as Bucky’s fingers press into the joining once more, coaxing another stream from his body “ —ahh fuck! U-up to an hour, I think. I haven’t, ah, had a vampire milking it out of me before.” Steve can’t bring himself to admit he’s never done this before at all. Bucky’s eyes narrow at the comment, but he doesn’t move his hand away, continuing to rub circles around Tony’s hole, firm enough for Steve to feel it through the thin skin separating Bucky’s fingers from his sensitive knot. He bites back the urge to beg Bucky to keep pressing, keep milking his release into Tony. Instead, he charges ahead, putting all his cards on the table. “This is only the first session, though. Tony’s going to need more tonight.”

“More? How much more? How long until he’s…” Bucky pauses, apparently searching for the right word. “…fixed?”

Steve is getting tired of saying, ‘ I don’t know’ so he shrugs. “He should be fine by morning.”

“ Morning? ” The strangled sound in Bucky’s throat breaks off abruptly as he lifts his hand from Tony’s body to scrub over his face. “Jesus, Steve. I can’t...” he trails off as he shifts under Tony, who makes a soft, disgruntled sound in his sleep.

“Are you still — uh, did you, um…” Steve inclines his head, hoping Bucky will follow his thread of thought, but dark eyes stare back up at him defiantly, refusing to play along. Bastard. “Did you come?’

“I’m fine.”

Steve’s hand slides hesitantly over the cool skin of Bucky’s side, following the milky path of Tony’s release before slipping between the slick join of bodies, seeking fingers finding cool, still-hard flesh. 

Bucky hisses sharply, gripping Steve’s wrist and yanking it off his cock and pulling out from between him and Tony. “ I said I’m fine .” 

Ignoring the heat flooding his face, Steve matches Bucky’s indignant stare. “This is going to be a very long, very uncomfortable night for you if you don’t let me help you.”

Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes before they narrow shrewdly. “How about I help you instead.”

“What do yo — ” Steve’s sharp intake of breath cuts through the rest of his question.

Bucky's hand moves back to Tony's ass and firm fingers press around the quivering rim, all five at once, digging deep and gripping Steve’s knot from the outside. “Let’s see if we can’t speed things along.”

“ Fuck! Bucky! Oh, god.” Steve whimpers as his cock jerks inside of Tony, pulsing in time with Bucky’s squeezing, forcing him to empty more quickly.

Bucky hums thoughtfully. “I guess wolfing out didn’t change everything about you. I remember how sensitive you were. Looks like you still are, aren’t you?” He squeezes again, massaging small circles through Tony’s body.

Pitiful, embarrassing sounds burst from Steve’s throat, breaking over his lips, and he tilts his hips back, his knot tugging at Tony’s rim, giving Bucky better access.

“Gonna milk it out of you like I used to. Make you cry, make you beg for it, till you’re exhausted and empty.”

“Buck, oh, fuck, oh, please don’t stop. ”

“Yeah, that’s it. Big, strong alpha, begging like a bitch in heat, so desperate to give me your come, aren’t you, Stevie ?”

The words with the sensation are too much. Ecstasy rips through him as his cock jerks and spits, emptying in a continuous stream. It’s incredible, like his pleasure is being torn from his body, pulled and pulled until he’s twitching, quaking, and crying out, rocking in the wet heat, hands reaching down to grip Tony’s hips as his own spasm uncontrollably. Bucky’s fingers work him continuously as he spills the last of his seed. The tight hole slowly unclenches around him, the pressure in his cock easing as his knot subsides, shrinks back, and he slips free in a messy flood of come and slick. 

#

He falls backward onto the bed, lying there, panting softly, and trying to catch his breath as his mind races in time with his heaving chest. How can that have been the single best and worst experience of his life? Oh, god. His heart jumps erratically in his chest, and he pulls in a short, sharp breath. Oh, shit. What the fuck has he just done?

The shifting of the mattress jolts him away from the panic attack he can feel gearing up inside him, and he turns to see Bucky sliding out from beneath Tony, ignoring the soft whimper of slumbering protest. He moves off the bed so quickly that by the time Steve twists to find him standing beside the bed, he has his pants up and is tugging his shirt down.

Steve rolls onto his side and pushes up on his elbows. “What are you doing? Tony needs — ”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, he doesn’t. Touch him.”

“What?”

“Put your hand on Tony.”

Steve sighs, but he does as Bucky asks, reaching over to place his hand on Tony’s thigh. The skin beneath his is still too warm, but the fever seems to have broken. The lead weight in Steve’s chest lifts a little. The protein is working; Tony is an omega. He turns back to Bucky and raises a questioning brow.

“He’s not rejecting your touch anymore. You don’t need me.”

Steve lifts his hand from Tony. He stares down at it a moment before dragging his gaze back to Bucky. “No, but I — ” The words fall off his tongue before he can stop them, but he clamps his lips closed just in time. He can’t tell Bucky he wants him to stay. And, truth be told, he’s not entirely sure that is what he wants.

Liar. The small voice bites at him. Of course, he wants Bucky to stay, that’s all he’s ever wanted. Steve’s eyes drift down to the sleeping figure nestled amongst the sheets, dark hair ruffled into adorable spikes, chest rising and falling steadily, making soft snoring sounds, and he can’t stop the small smile settling on his lips. Bucky had been the only thing he’s ever wanted… until now. 

“Take care of him.”

“Y-you’re leaving? Now? ” The twisting in Steve’s gut is quick and gripping, the rejection reopening a familiar wound inside him that had never quite healed. But he sets his jaw and trains his face blank, unwilling to let Bucky see the damage; he’s humiliated himself enough today already. 

“I can’t stay and…” Bucky turns toward the door but doesn’t make a move toward it. “Help him. Do whatever you need to fix him.” He reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out a small, flat disc. He rubs his thumb over the edge in an achingly gentle way before moving to the dresser by the door and placing the disc on the worn top. “Tony made this for… emergencies,” Bucky murmurs, the sound just loud enough for Steve’s enhanced hearing to pick up. “If you need help, press it. It’s connected to Tony’s phone; I’ll take it with me.” Without waiting for a reply or giving a backward glance, Bucky disappears from the room. 

Steve hates the way his heart constricts in his chest. He knew Bucky was going to leave, what does it matter if it’s sooner rather than later? He’ll survive it, he’s done it before, he can do it again; he’s somewhat of an expert at being rejected by James Barnes at this point. And fuck, he’s stupid for even expecting anything else. Bucky’s not interested, he’s made that abundantly clear, and yet Steve still can’t help but fall at his feet like… like a dog, begging for scraps. And isn’t that just perfect? 

All at once, Steve feels the years peel back all his hard-won confidence and control, stripping away the calluses on his heart until he’s small and broken and alone.

Again.

But the tenacity that’s threaded through his soul like a steel guiding wire snaps taut, and he pushes to his knees on the bed and sets his shoulders. He’s not small, not anymore. And he may be broken, but he still has all his pieces, tarnished and tattered as they may be. But most importantly, he’s not alone.

“Steve?” Tony's voice cracks as he turns over. He lifts a trembling hand, fingers splayed wide, reaching for Steve. "I need — "

Steve leans down to sweep his hand over Tony's forehead, pushing the short, damp strands off his face before taking Tony’s hand and twining their fingers together. No, he's not alone, he has Tony, and Tony needs him, at least for tonight. “Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here. I’ve got you. Everything's going to be okay, I promise." 

Steve runs his hand down Tony's chest, lingering on the cluster of scars, silently vowing that he will find a way to keep that promise, no matter what it takes.

  



	16. Chapter 16

The world rushes past in a blur as Bucky speeds from the house, uncaring where he ends up as long as it’s far away from here. Away from Steve, from Tony, from Steve _fucking_ Tony.

Bucky had spent more than a lifetime feeling out of place, but this had to be an all-time low. What could a wolf—no, two wolves—need from a vampire? Aside from playing his part as a convenient cooling pad, of course. No, they had each other now, they didn't need him.

He snaps to a stop and lashes out at the thick tree before him. The bark splinters as his hand slices clean through the trunk, the force sending the cleaved tree flying away from him, smashing into a line of its kin, and breaking apart, the wooden debris being carried away by the howling wind.

Steve’s blood sings in Bucky’s veins, the taste still lingering on his tongue and feeding his body with familiar desire. It’s the last thing he ever expected, to find Steve here, to _taste_ him again.

The phantom touch of Tony’s body rutting against him, and the memory of Steve’s dark eyes locking on his, almost calling his name burns through him, and Bucky can’t bear the throbbing agony any longer. An impatient hand shoves the sweatpants down his thighs as the other wraps tightly around his aching, neglected cock. His hips thrust into his fist as it speeds up and down his shaft, over and over, twisting around the leaking head, sliding smoothly over precome-wet skin. His throaty groans are lost to the wind lashing around him. 

The jealousy churning inside him splinters, sending a million dazzling, filthy impossibilities flashing through his mind: of sliding into Tony’s slick heat, being the cause of those desperate whining moans, of driving into Steve’s familiar, greedy little hole, taking him hard from behind as he fucks into Tony, and fantasies of his own cock rubbing against Steve’s as they take Tony together, making him moan and cry as they stretch him wide, filling him until he screams…

Bucky sinks his fangs into his upper arm with a growl, wrenching his head down, ripping deep, jagged gouges into his own flesh as his cock pulses and jerks in his hand. It’s intense though empty pleasure, but Bucky welcomes the relief, milking the last drops of come from his cock as his body buzzes with pleasant, sparking aftershocks. 

Bending, he scoops a handful of snow, and rubs it over himself, cleaning the mess from his skin. 

He tucks himself back into his pants before turning his attention to his arm. The damaged flesh is healing already, tissues reconnecting, skin knitting itself back together until there’s no evidence a wound ever existed, save the smears of blackened blood he wipes away with the back of his hand.

The irony of the whole situation isn’t lost on him—that Steve had been the one to heal him, when it had been _he_ that had broken Steve five years ago. Steve had gone into a tailspin when Bucky had abandoned him. He knows because he’d stayed and watched it happen.

Steve had so desperately wanted to become like him, begging to be turned, becoming increasingly fearful that injury or illness would part them. But Steve just hadn’t understood what he’d been asking. How could Bucky expect Steve, a creature of light and love, to sacrifice sunshine and warmth to live in cold shadows? A sunflower would wither away in his world, and the affection Steve felt for him would fade eventually, he’d turn resentful that everything he’d ever known had been stolen from him. He’d want his life back, and that is the one thing beyond Bucky’s power to give. He could not bear to see Steve become a monster—like him—and would not survive having the one thing he loved grow to hate him.  
  
He’d had no choice; He’d had to sacrifice Steve to save him.

Bucky had waited, lingering silently in the shadows, watching as Steve searched for him. It had taken Steve three days before he’d stumbled into the wrong alley and ended up with his ass on the ground, bruises forming over his face and body, and blood rushing from his broken nose. 

Bucky had wanted so desperately to intervene like he had that first day, to protect Steve, but he’d steeled himself and held his position. He’d set his jaw and taken his punishment—the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, Steve’s cries of pain, and the salty scent of frustrated tears when Bucky had not shown up to save him. It had been like sunlight scorching his heart, turning it to ash. The agony in his chest unlike any pain he’d ever known, but he deserved all of it and more. Steve’s actions and the bloody consequences were all on him; he had known better than to get mixed up with a human, and yet, he’d gone and fallen in love with one.

Even though undoubtedly his fault, the marks on that beautiful skin had been a transgression he could not overlook. Under cover of night, Bucky had tracked the bastard with Steve’s blood on his knuckles to another alley, and made sure he never left it.

It took four months for Steve’s spirit to break, for his hopes of Bucky returning to shatter completely. Four months of his name shouted from Steve’s lips in anger and dripping from them like a pleading prayer, of bruised knuckles and split skin and fractured bones. Four months of broken bodies in dark alleys, left crumpled and discarded amongst the trash where they belonged.

Bucky had waited and watched for a month more, unable to sever ties completely. But having Steve close without being able to touch him, to comfort him, to feed from and fuck him, was so much worse than not having him at all... or so he thought.

Bucky had never felt more like he was dying than the final time he turned away from Steve. Knowing he’d never see those bright eyes shining up at him with love and trust and desire had almost made him greet the sunrise with open arms.

The memories blister inside him, and too agitated to stand still, Bucky pushes deeper into the forest, letting the flailing branches scratch and break against his face as the wind whips his hair around him. He moves fast, his legs driving him forward, sprinting around the trees and rocks as they appear from the darkness, trying to outrun the ghosts hunting him.

He had never dared dream about seeing Steve again, but even if he had, not in his wildest one, would he have been able to conjure up the circumstances of their reunion. The thought of Steve Rogers as a wolf, as an _alpha wolf,_ was as unimaginable as the idea of getting tangled up with another human. But then, Tony isn’t even human after all. And isn’t that just a grand, cosmic joke? 

A blur of movement draws his focus the same time the scent reaches his nose: Lycan. His legs still, and he crouches low, tension tightening his body.

The shifter stops, mirroring his stance, ready for a fight though her legs tremble under her. Her eyes dart to the left and right before returning to him. Bucky can hear the rapid pounding of her heart even over the rush of wind, and smell the sour fear rising from her skin. Is she from the rival pack Steve had mentioned? Bucky holds his position, waiting for the redhead to drop to her knees and shift, or spring forward and attack in human form.

But the attack doesn’t come. 

“Are you… Bucky?” The redhead calls hesitantly still crouched in her defensive position.

“That depends on who’s asking.” Bucky doesn’t raise his voice, knowing the shifter’s unnatural hearing will pick his words up through the gusting wind.

“I’m Nat. Friend, not food. I’m looking for Steve. Is he with you?” Nat raises her palms as she straightens slowly, making no sudden movements. 

Bucky eyes her a moment longer before rising himself. If she’s lying, he can take her easily now he has his strength back, and if she’s not, then she’s one of Steve’s pack—one of the few remaining loyal—and he really shouldn’t tear her to pieces, she might be useful in the coming fight.

“Steve’s… busy.”

“Uh-huh. Well, all the same, I’m going to have to interrupt, he’ll want to—”

“Whatever you need to tell him will have to wait until—” _Until he’s not knot-deep in Tony._ Bucky catches the thought between his teeth just in time. “Until he’s not busy.”

Nat hums thoughtfully, taking a few steps closer, eyes raking over Bucky from head to foot, and he gets the oddest sensation that she’s assessing and cataloging every last detail. 

“You’re my first. Vampire, I mean. Honestly, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. You’re hot, sure… or, well, cool, I guess—” Nat smirks “—I can see why Steve’s smitten, but I expected, I don’t know, _more,_ somehow _._ You’re not actually that scary up close.”

The declaration should make him bristle. Under normal circumstances, he’d take it as a challenge, and speed behind the redhead in a blink, press his fangs against her throat just enough to pierce the skin and make her rethink her conclusion. But instead, his brain had stalled on ‘ _Steve’s smitten_.’ 

It’s a ludicrous statement, of course, the only things Steve feels for him are miles away from smitten, wrapped up in anger and resentment and pain and— _oh._ Those dark, hungry eyes swim in front of his own.

Bucky clears his throat roughly. “I can take him a message. Is it about that?” he asks, nodding to the ripped, blood-soaked denim covering her thigh before his eyes come to rest on the large, yellowing bruise stretched across her left cheek, curving up toward her eye. “It doesn’t look good.”

“You should see the other guy,” Nat murmurs. “Speaking of which, I need Steve’s help with a corpse. Or, more to the point, I need Steve’s Tony to help me with a corpse.”

“ _Steve’s_ Tony?” Bucky raises an eyebrow, those splinters of jealousy digging in a little deeper. 

“Yeah, he’s the sherr—”

“I know who he is. Why do you need him?”

“To collect the body. I’ve never seen this guy before, but with the force-shifting, he’s got to be one of Rumlow’s, which means he’s recruiting new pack members from somewhere. I thought Tony might be able to check some facial recognition databases or—” she waves a hand “—fingerprints or whatever, and tell who he is. Give us a head start in trying to figure out what Rumlow’s up to. It would also help if the scent trail were human rather than wolf.”

Bucky frowns but doesn’t say that Tony isn’t going to be any help on the last part. 

Tony’s phone vibrates in his pants, and he tugs it free. Relief and disappointment roll through him as he frowns down at the screen, expecting to find a notification from the panic button, but seeing only the name ‘Bird Brain’ staring up at him instead. He accepts the call and presses the phone to his ear.

“Hey, man, I think I fucked up.”

Bucky frowns at the distorted voice on the other end of the line. “Who is this?”

“This is Clint, which this is you?”

Suddenly, the name on the screen makes sense. “Bucky,” he identifies himself reluctantly.

“Bucky?” The hesitation on the other end of the line is filled with roaring wind. “Why do you have Tony’s phone? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Bucky answers automatically before reconsidering. “Well, he’s… no, he's not, but he's getting... help. By all acounts he'll be fine in the morning.” Not human, but fine.

 _“Riiiiight_ ,” Clint replies slowly. “The thing is, I _really_ need to talk to him. I need his help. So if—”

“Help with what?”

“Look, man, I’m glad you looped your way out of the hole, but I just really need to speak with—”

“Tony can’t come to the phone right now,” Bucky drawls, matching Barton’s dismissive tone. “But if you’d like to leave a message, I can see that he gets it.” Because apparently now he’s a fucking errand boy.

Clint’s string of creative curses carries through the phone before he sighs. “Fine. I’m out at Crescent Clearing again. Old man Phillips called in some kind of disturbance, and when I got here, there was another one.. uh, another corpse.” He pauses. “Hey, you wouldn’t have been out here in the last couple of hours by any chance?” An unlikely mixture of suspicion and hope threads through the words. 

“No,” Bucky replies flatly.

“Hmm.” Clint doesn’t sound convinced. “Maybe tell Tony, at your earliest convenience, that I came out when there was a break in the storm, but now it’s kicked back up and, uh, I’m kind of stuck out here. I can’t see five feet in front of me, and my phone’s about to die, and I don’t want to be the next in line.”

Bucky lowers the phone and turns his gaze to Nat. “It seems your corpse problem just became mine. How far is Crescent Clearing from here?”

Nat jerks her head toward the left. “About three and a half miles.”

“I’m close by, I can—” _Help._ Bucky swallows down the word, neon warning signs flashing in his mind. No good ever comes of getting involved with humans, ever. It’s a lesson drilled into him through pain and blood, and yet, here he is again, thinking about—no, not thinking about, actively _planning_ to go and rescue another one like a stray puppy. But, Barton is important to Tony, if he dies when Bucky had the chance to stop it… It’ll be just one more irreversible red mark in his ledger. “I’ll be there in a minute,” Bucky says into the phone. “Don’t touch anything,” he adds as an afterthought before ending the call, not waiting to listen to Clint’s spluttering protest. 

Bucky tucks the phone back into his pocket and gestures to Nat. “You can go and do… whatever it is your kind do. I’ll deal with the body and pass on your message to Steve.”

There’s a pause before Nat tilts her head, curiously, to the side. “Why are you doing this? Helping humans, protecting wolves? It doesn’t seem like a very vampire thing to do.”

“I thought you’d never met one,” Bucky deflects.

Nat isn’t deterred. “You’re going to lay your life on the line for a fight that isn’t even yours. Why?”

“I have a debt. I intend to repay it,” Bucky murmurs. He knows he can’t ever hope to make amends, scars can never be unwrought, but he would honor Steve’s request for his help. It’s the least he can do.

Shrewd green eyes narrow before Nat nods her head, and she turns on her heel, disappearing into the forest in a blur of black and red.

Bucky twists in the opposite direction, the one Nat had gestured to and jolts into motion. He pays no mind to the storm as it rages around him, his eyes finding the way through the dark haze quickly, picking a path through the snow-laden trees easily. His feet move across the ground too swiftly to sink too deeply, the scent of human now guiding him forward. 

The familiar truck parked at the edge of the clearing is a lighthouse in the swirling sea of white, the headlights flaring like a beacon in the darkness. Bucky changes course, circling to come up behind the idling truck. He slows when he reaches the tailgate, and walks at a brisk human pace to the driver’s side door. 

Inside the truck, Clint startles at Bucky’s sudden appearance. “Jesus! Where the fuck did you come from?”

“I was close.”

“Man, I hung up the phone thirty seconds ago, there’s no way you could have—”

“Where’s the body?”

Clint gapes at him, looking like he wants very much to push the point of Bucky’s sudden arrival, but ultimately shakes his head as if realizing the futility of arguing. “In the back.” 

Bucky growls as he storms around to the back of the truck. “I told you not to touch it.”

The door creaks open before slamming shut, and Clint trails Bucky around to the tailgate, a dull light from his phone spearing the darkness. “Hey, you aren’t the boss of me. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re not the boss of anything. Only Tony has the privilege of telling me what to do, and I don’t even listen to him half the time. I didn’t ask you out here to play CSI: Extreme Whiteout, or, hell, I didn’t even ask you out here at all. The guy is dead, there are no clues or—” Clint leans forward, over the truck, close enough that Bucky can feel the pepperoni-scented breath huff against his cheek, the warm exhale immediately replaced by icy winds. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you doing, are you _sniffing_ him?”

Bucky lifts his face away from the body. Three distinct scents soil his nose; Deputy Clint fucking Barton, the unfamiliar stench of the dead lycan, and Nat’s strangely spicy fragrance. So, this must be _the other guy._

Nat had done a number on him for sure—the gaping gash running from sternum to groin deep enough that a lot of the shifter’s insides are currently spilled over the outside of his body. More blood is caked around his fingernails, crusted over his knuckles, and smeared around his mouth—no doubt the cause of the damage to Nat’s leg. He must have been killed while in wolf-form.

Bucky can’t stop his lips curving up. He likes the redhead’s style. His sharp eyes scan the white-hazed darkness, searching for any other Lycans - on four legs or two-- but finding none. 

The light from Clint’s phone blinks off. “S-shit! Just f-fucking fantastic,” he groans. “Well, t-there g-goes our chance of r-rescue.”

Bucky turns back to Clint, watching the human rub his gloved hands over the heavy coat wrapped around his shivering body. “I _am_ the rescue, Barton. Now get in the truck before you die of hypothermia, and I have to throw you in the back with this guy.”

“Psshh,” Clint puffs before squinting at Bucky. “I’m f-fine,” he mumbles, his chattering teeth calling his bluff. “You b-better not b-b-be lookin’ for an exc-c-cuse to huddle together f-for warmth, b-because I’m s-sorry to b-break it to y-you pal, but I d-don’t swing that w-way.”

“Imagine how disappointed that makes me,” Bucky retorts dryly. “Get in the truck, or I’ll put you there.”

Apparently taking the threat seriously, Clint rolls his eyes before turning and trudging toward the truck.

“No, the passenger side, Barton. I’m driving.”

“M-man, we’re n-not going a-a-anywhere. Can’t s-s-see—”

“Just get in the truck,” Bucky repeats, advancing to the driver’s side door. 

A rush of warmth blows over Bucky from the heater as he slides onto the seat and pulls the door closed behind him, watching Clint cut through the beams of the headlights before climbing into the truck on the other side, and slams his own door against the wind. Trembling hands instantly seek out the heat flowing from the vents, and Bucky angles his own toward Clint, telling himself it’s just because the loud chattering of teeth is annoying, not because he actually _cares_. 

He pulls in a quick breath just to push it out in a sigh, needing to vent his frustration at himself in some way other than tearing the steering wheel from its column and sending it hurtling through the windshield like a death frisbee. Is he ever going to fucking learn?

“I g-guess I should say t-thanks,” Clint mutters. “If you h-hadn’t come, I think Tony w-would be collecting two b-bodies in the morning.” 

The reluctant words interrupt Bucky’s internal self-condemnation. “Why didn’t _you_ wait for morning? The corpse wasn’t going to get any more dead. You didn’t have to come by yourself.”

Clint shrugs, thankfully no longer shaking like a leaf, the hot air seemingly having done its job. “Well, obviously,” he huffs. “I d-didn’t _know_ it was a dead body, Phillips just mentioned some kind of a-attack. And I knew Tony wanted some alone time with you, so...” He shrugs again. “Sorry if I, uh, interrupted _things._ ”

Bucky’s lips twist down before he can stop them. “You didn’t interrupt,” he mutters darkly before shoving the truck into gear and starting the long drive back to town. 

“He’s been alone for a long time,” Clint says quietly, staring through the windshield at the rushing flakes of white emerging from the darkness before blowing back out of view of the headlights. “It’s been nice to see him interested in someone _..._ though I would have preferred it to be someone other than the guy that maybe-sort’a-might’ve been somehow involved in the bloodbath that day at the clearing.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say he hadn’t hurt Tony, but it’s a lie of omission. He may not have hurt Tony _that day,_ but he had caused pain before it and since. But Clint continues before he gets a chance to open his mouth and make more of a mess of things. 

“You’re kind of scary, you know. Kinda makes me wanna run in the opposite direction whenever I see you coming, but I swear to you now, if you ever hurt him—” Clint swings his still-swollen, bruised face toward Bucky, the unspoken ‘ _again’_ ringing loud in the beat of silence “—whether a bruise or a broken heart, I will make sure that yours is the next body in that clearing.”

Bucky meets Clint’s gaze: unwavering despite the frantic pounding in his chest, and the acrid scent of fear seeping from his skin. Maybe humans have something to teach him beside the lessons he’d failed to heed so far. He had almost forgotten that love isn’t just a liability, a _weakness;_ it can also be a source of strength.

He doesn’t doubt Clint’s sincerity, nor his own inability to carry the weight of knowing he’s destroyed two things he… _he loves._ The steering wheel groans as he tightens his grip a little too hard. He can’t go through that, not again. The first time had almost killed him. Eyes still locked on Clint’s, Bucky gives a solemn nod of understanding before turning back to the windshield. “If it comes to that, I’ll go with you willingly.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Okay. I blame this entirely on "ravynfyre" for asking me how old Tony was, and unknowingly pushing a little plot bunny into my brain.

Tony floats toward the surface of consciousness slowly, rising from oblivion, gradually becoming aware of the dull ache of his arms, his chest, his… his _everything._ His entire body feels like one big bruise. Sleep curls around him, tugging at his edges seductively, trying to coax him back into the darkness. His surrendering groan catches in his throat as a warm body shifts behind him, slotting up against him perfectly, muscular legs tangling with his own. A wire of panic snaps taught in his lazy brain, slicing through the lingering remnants of sleep, and his heart picks up pace in his chest as his eyes fly open. Who the fuck is behind him? Why is he so sore? And Hot? And… sticky? 

“Are you alright?” Bucky’s voice drifts out of the darkness.

Tony tries to push himself to a sitting position, but his body is leaden, resisting his mind’s commands to move. It feels like an age before he gets his palms flat on the bed, his arms shuddering alarmingly as he leverages himself up, but they hold until his legs finally receive his brain’s impulses and strain against the mattress, taking his weight as he shuffles backward, only stopping when his back connects with the headboard.

“Tony? What’s wrong?”

 _Steve._ Tony’s mind supplies a name to the _who_ immediately, though it stumbles on the _why_ Steve is in his bed, pressed up against him.

The sharp inhale of breath comes a beat before Steve’s voice rings through the room once more. “Bucky?” His voice is both hesitant and relieved. “You came back?”

“Of course. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it.” There’s a sharp click before the room floods with light, and Tony blinks against the bright glow shining down on him from the ceiling, his bleary eyes trying to adjust. 

Bucky is standing in the doorway, wet clothes clinging to the sculpted muscles beneath, arms folded over his chest, eyes locked on the bed. Tony’s own gaze swings from Bucky to Steve, beside him in bed, gloriously naked but for the sheet snaked over his lap and twisted between his legs. 

Tony swallows thickly, suddenly realizing his dick is already half-hard, and his ass is very wet. He’s also very, very confused. What the fuck is going on? He tries to remember how he ended up naked in bed with Steve, apparently putting on a private show for Bucky, but his brain stalls, feeling like it’s stuck on a loading screen.

“So, you know that old joke about a vampire walking in on a human in bed with a wolf?” Tony says, trying to force lightness into his tone. “I seem to have forgotten the punchline. Can someone help a fella out?”

A small, amused huff sounds from the door. “What do you remember?”

Tony’s brow furrows at the sardonic hitch of Bucky’s lips. “I remember you, uh, biting me. And then…” he trails off and shakes his head slowly, a mild panic creeping into his chest. “Did it work? Am I still me? And why am I naked and sore and very sticky?”

“Things are a bit more compli—” Steve starts carefully.

“It didn’t work,” Bucky says flatly, cutting him off. 

“That’s an oversimplification, Buck. This isn’t your fault,” Steve says firmly. “You know it was never going to work. It wasn’t the bite.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Bucky replies darkly. “It could—”

“Whoa, whoa, time out.” Tony holds his hands up in a “T” as the panic rises higher into his throat. _It didn’t work?_ “How about we answer the naked amnesiac’s questions first.”

“You are still you, Tony, nothing is going to change that. It’s just... you’re not what you thought you were,” Steve tries again. “If you were going to turn because of the bite, it wouldn’t be for two days, when the full moon rises. That’s just how things work. I think you were… I mean, you must have been born a Lycan. I’ve gone over it a dozen times from a dozen different angles, but that’s the only thing that makes sense, the only thing that explains everything.” 

The words enter Tony’s head and then just sort of hang there, his brain denying the new information entry. It’s impossible. He’d assimilated the revelation about the existence of a supernatural world existing alongside his own reasonably well, all things considered, but the notion that he’d been _born_ into that world is ridiculous. No, he would have known something like that about himself. He shakes his head, unable to absorb the absurd declaration. “I’m pretty sure I would have noticed sprouting fur once a month and scampering around on all fours. There has to be an angle you’re missing, but we can circle back to that in a second. What about the rest? Why am I naked, sore, and…”

“You were sick. Dying, actually.” Bucky’s lips twist down. “It’s a wolf thing. Steve had to fuck you to fix you. He has magical, healing come.”

“ _Bucky,_ ” Steve hisses, his cheeks burning brightly. He shifts on the bed, crossing his legs before rearranging the sheet more substantially over his lap.

“ _What?_ ” Tony squeaks. His own cheeks heat as memories begin to stir, hazy and indistinct, like shadows in a fog—sweaty skin, cool hands, frustrated tears.

“That’s why you’re sore. As for the rest,” Bucky continues, sounding amused now, eyes trained on Steve, “you were leaking. Some kind of sweet-smelling fluid from your a—”

“Jesus, Bucky! _Stop!_ That’s isn’t… that’s not exactly…” Steve trails off helplessly. “It’s called slick. It’s just natural lubrication; all omegas have it. I can explain all that later,” he rubs a hand over the back of his neck as he shoots a dark look at Bucky. It takes a stretched moment before he drags his eyes back to Tony. “I just... I’m so sorry, Tony. I know I shouldn’t have touched you without your permission, and I wouldn’t have if I didn’t think it was life or death. Omegas need a protein only alphas have, and without it, you could have died, and I couldn’t—” Steve snaps his jaw shut, putting an end to his babbling apology, his anguished eyes falling from Tony’s to the clenched fists in his lap. With his head still lowered, he murmurs, “I would never have touched you otherwise.”

The stream of words rushes through Tony’s brain, washing away the fog. Everything comes flooding back: cool skin beneath his, fevered hardness pressing into him, stretching him so perfectly, the sound of his own broken, begging cries filling the room as he’d splintered apart over and over, and Steve filling him endlessly, pulsing hot and wet into him all night. He slides a hand beneath the bunched sheet resting against his chest, and presses it over his swollen belly. The heat in his cheeks grows, spreading down his neck. 

“No, I... I know. I remember now,” Tony mutters. Steve’s words are like a punch to the gut. He’d literally begged Steve to fuck him—Steve, who would rather _‘talk’_ than have Tony’s mouth around his cock, Steve who had only fucked him to save his life, Steve who’s trying to let him down gently, to let him know in no uncertain terms it won’t be happening again, like Steve expects him to start begging for it… _again_. Ignoring the feel of his already flushed skin burning brighter, Tony pushes his lips up in an empty smile. “Don’t worry. I get it. You made it plenty clear at your house that you have zero interest in fucking any part of me, but I appreciate you taking one for the team and saving my life.” The clipped words push past his lips before he can stop them, even as visions of being taken by Steve replay in his mind. A rush of liquid slips between his asscheeks, the strange sensation making him shift on the bed. 

The low growl beside him coils down his spine, sending molten heat pooling low in his belly and leaking onto the bed. But the noise breaks off as Steve clears his throat roughly. “Tony, that’s not what—”

Tony holds up a hand as his eyes meet Steve’s, defiantly. He can’t hear Steve’s platitudes right now. He’s never been one to take _‘it’s not you, it’s me’_ very well, and he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful for the extreme-if-unorthodox life-saving measures. He changes tack, focusing on more important things than the sting of rejection. “This liquid, ah, this slick, is that just a temporary side effect of—” he gestures vaguely “—this protein requirement thing?” 

Steve’s lips press into a tight seam as he shakes his head slowly. “It’s ah, well… you know how, well, women, ahh…”

Tony sighs impatiently, his embarrassment being swallowed whole by frustration. “Use your words, Steve.” 

“Well, when women are… when they—” Steve turns to glare at Bucky, who's chuckling softly where he’s still leaning against the doorframe “—shut the fuck up, Barnes.” 

The laughter stops, but Bucky grins, reveling in Steve’s obvious discomfort. “I think he’s trying to tell you this is your new normal. When you get aroused, your body now has inbuilt lubrication. It actually sounds kind of convenient.”

More slick leaks from Tony’s ass, the warm liquid sliding down over his skin before soaking into the already wet sheet beneath him. “Yeah? Well, you’re not the one sitting in it,” he grumbles. “And this constant state of arousal that’s triggering the lube factory inside me, is that the new normal as well?”

“Are you still…” Steve clears his throat, his face burning scarlet now, looking so much like he wants to be anywhere but here, that Tony feels a swell of sympathy. “The lack of protein triggers what’s called a heat, increasing your libido to—”

“To the point you’re rutting up against any hot _or_ cool body in your general vicinity,” Bucky supplies, not seeming to share Tony’s sympathy, just enjoying Steve’s intense mortification. 

Memories of grinding against Bucky, of begging to be fucked fill Tony’s mind. Precome wells up and spills over, adding to the mess already coating his skin. Still hidden by the blanket, Tony lowers his arm discreetly, pressing the heel of his hand against his aching cock.

“—To encourage you to mate,” Steve grinds out as if Bucky hadn’t interrupted. “It’s just biological urges being triggered. But that’s only until your body gets what it needs. The, uh, cravings should start to ease after that. And then your sex-drive should return to however it was before the heat.”

Tony nods carefully. Knowing the intense _want_ that had been thrumming through him for the past few days isn’t going to be his new default setting is _something_. Still, this new reality feels intangible and false, like a dream. Or, maybe it’s shock. He does feel oddly numb. “Okay, so... Right.” He kneads the burgeoning throbbing in his temples, his brain struggling to absorb the information. “You said this _wasn’t_ because I was bitten. Let’s double back to that for a minute.”

Steve’s pinched face immediately relaxes, apparently happy to be moving on from Lycan Sex Ed For Dummies. “All humans bitten turn on the first full moon after the bite, and they’re _always_ betas, never omegas.” 

“What’s the difference? Aside from hazing rituals and pledge requirements?” 

Steve gives him a small smile. “Omegas don’t produce the protein at all, whereas a beta produces a minimal amount, enough that they don’t have heats or require, uh, assistance from an alpha. It’s a procreation trade-off—omegas are the only ones who can birth alphas.”

Tony starts choking on his spit, coughing harshly. Steve’s hand slides between the headboard and Tony’s back, pushing him forward before thumping in what Tony’s sure is a gentle-to-Steve manner. He lurches forward, away from the hand, and waves Steve off, sucking in air through his nose, eyes watering at his protesting lungs and the burning pain in his back. Unable to wait until the fit has subsided completely, he twists toward Steve and croaks, “ _Birth?_ You do mean just _female_ omegas, right?”

Steve lifts his hand away from Tony’s back, dropping it back to his lap before he shakes his head. 

Tony can feel the blood drain from his face as his hand flies back up to his distended belly. “I’m not—this isn’t—”

“ _No,_ ” Steve answers quickly. “No, that’s just...uh.” His cheeks bloom into color once more. 

“I hate to interrupt,” Bucky says darkly in a tone that suggests the opposite, all traces of earlier amusement gone, “but we have a new problem. There was another shifter attack. Nat killed it, and Clint and I collected the—”

“You met Nat?”

“There's been another attack?”

“You two weren’t the only ones busy tonight.” Bucky’s gaze flicks to the window, and Tony’s eyes chase it, to the soft peach light peeking around the blind. “Or, last night, I guess.” Bucky finally pushes off the wall and moves toward the bed. He eyes the end of the mattress for a moment but doesn’t sit. He tucks his hands behind his back, eyes still on the empty mattress, looking like he’s giving a mission report. “We took the body to the clinic. Nat is hoping Tony can find out who he is; she thinks he’s one of Rumlow’s lot, seeing how he attacked in dog form. I took photos for you to run through whatever facial recognition database you have.”

Steve swears under his breath. “That’s why I had to run off yesterday. One of Rumlow’s pack came sniffing around, and Nat got hurt. I told her to leave it alone, that I’d deal with it, but she never listens. She was always going to go after him,” he sighs. “Is she okay?”

Bucky nods. “A gash on her thigh and a few marks that are already healing. She’ll be fine. She seems competent enough.”

“That’s one word for it.” Steve holds his hand out for the phone. “Can I see the photos?”

Bucky walks around to the side of the bed as he fishes Tony's phone out of his pocket. His fingers dance over the screen before he holds it out to Steve, but the too-pale face on the screen steals Tony’s breath, and he grabs the device from Bucky’s hand. 

“I know him,” Tony breathes. The phone trembles in his hand.

“What? Are you sure?” Steve asks.

Tony nods. It had been a while, hell, it had been _years_ , but he’d never forget that face, the way those thin lips would pull up into a cruel sneer, and cold blue eyes, now hidden under closed lids, would shine with amusement when a well-aimed backhand from Obie sent him sprawling to the floor. 

Tony tosses the phone on to the bed. “His name is Raza… or, well, Obie always made me call him Mister Raza, I don’t know if that’s his real name.” Tony squeezes his eyes shut, his stomach clenching sickeningly. It had taken him years to forget his life before it had become his own, years of panic attacks and nightmares and waking up in a cold sweat, screaming. He thought he’d buried those ghosts, but of course, he’d been fooling himself. He had endured, and he had survived, but he hadn't escaped, not all of him.

“Who’s Obie?”

“Obadiah Stane. He was Tony’s legal guardian growing up,” Bucky answers quietly. 

Steve’s eyes dart from Tony to Bucky and back again, a crease forming between his brows. “Did you grow up close to here? You said you’ve lived here since you were eighteen.”

“No. I ended up here because it’s as far as the money I had on me would take me,” Tony murmurs, trying to ignore the familiar feeling of his throat closing, and the rash of heat itching over his skin—claws of a panic attack taking hold. “I don’t understand any of this. I can’t be… a - a—” he takes a shallow breath, blowing the rest of his words out before his nerve deserts him “—a shifter. I can’t—it’s not—whatever is wrong with me, it has to be something else, it has to—”

“Shh, Tony, it’s okay.” Bucky is suddenly kneeling on the floor beside the bed, rubbing cool, soothing thumbs over the inside of Tony’s wrists. “Hey, everything is going to be okay. This is just a puzzle that we have to solve, and we could really use that clever brain of yours to help put the pieces together.”

The cool touch is hypnotic, calming, and Tony draws in a steadying though shaky breath as Steve rubs a large, warm hand up and down his back reassuringly.

“It could just be a coincidence. There are plenty of Lycans in the world, Tony,” Steve adds calmly. “We pass a lot easier than Bucky’s kind,” he smiles. 

“Don’t listen to him; wolves have always been jealous of vampires. It’s how this whole age-old blood feud started.” Bucky winks at him.

Tony stares into the light blue eyes locked on his. No longer silver, Bucky’s eyes are ice blue, glittering prettily in the incandescent light. He opens his mouth to ask ‘ _how_ ’ but the mention of blood triggers something in his brain. “ _Blood!_ Couldn’t this… whatever it is that’s happening to me be because of the transfu—” he breaks off abruptly. _Oh, god._ It _had_ been the blood, just not the blood he’d thought. But... that would mean that Steve is right. He had been born a wolf; he just hadn’t _stayed_ one.

Tony can see the exact moment the same pieces fall into place inside Bucky’s mind. 

“The accident.” Bucky murmurs.

“The transfusions. Is that possible?”

The rhythmic motion of Bucky’s fingers stops, and they tighten around Tony’s wrists. “It might be.”

“What are you talking about?” Steve cuts in, sounding confused. 

“When I was almost five, my parents died in a car crash.”

“ _Oh, Tony._ ” The warm hand on Tony’s back moves up to his shoulder and squeezes gently.

“It was my fault.” Bucky releases Tony’s hands, starting to lift his own, but Tony catches them and pulls them back down to the bed, keeping them clutched in his. 

“No, it wasn’t,” Tony counters, ignoring Bucky’s low grunt of disagreement. “It was an _accident._ Bucky was there. He saved me.” Tony squeezes the hands in his. He knows Bucky blames himself for what happened, but Tony can’t bring himself to. Bucky hadn’t set out to hurt anyone, and Tony is only alive today because of him. They don’t even know if Bucky _had_ been the reason for the crash. Tony ignores the prickling sensation in the back of his mind. “He stopped me bleeding out and carried me miles to the hospital. They were able to save me, but…”

“He died,” Bucky finishes. “They had to give him a whole new body-worth of blood to restart his heart and save him.”

“And you think all his wolf blood was replaced with regular human blood.” Steve blows out a low breath. “I mean, it sounds possible. Whatever makes us… _us_ , is borne from blood. Maybe you didn’t have enough latent genes to activate when you came of age, or they went dormant from the trauma, but something about them being reintroduced through the bite must have stirred things up again. Started altering your blood like it would a human, only, it isn’t changing it, just reactivating it.” Steve sighs. “Tony, are you sure there’s nothing from when you were growing up, nothing about being a shifter? Maybe you just didn’t understand it at the time?”

The laugh that slips past Tony’s lips is hollow, scratching at his throat, trying to bleed into a scream. “There’s a lot about life with Obie that I’ll never understand. Like why he even took me in if he hated me so much, how he used to go out of his way to break me down, to humiliate me, to beat me and chain me up like a—” His mind stutters before it starts reeling, his whole childhood flashing back at him, and for the first time, watching through a different lens, Tony finally understands. “ _Oh my god._ ”

“Tony, what’s—”

“ _Oh my god, oh my god._ ” Tony starts shaking, and Steve wraps his arms around him as Bucky lifts on his knees and cups Tony’s face.

“Hey, sweetheart, calm down. Deep breaths,” Bucky instructs. “Take a deep breath for me. Tell us what’s going on.”

“He knew. He knew,” Tony chokes out, blinking back the stinging wetness filling his eyes. “Obie _knew_ what I was... what I _am._ He knew, and he never told me.”

Bucky’s thumb dances over the hinge of Tony's jaw. “Why do you think that?”

“He used to lock me up every month. He’d beat me, call me a little bitch, and chain me up in the closet. He'd always scream about my father's blood and knowing my place, and I never—I didn’t—” Welled tears spill over, and Tony lets himself be pulled against Steve’s broad chest, not even trying to stop his tears. “Why wouldn’t he have told me what I am? He knew... but how?" The tears stop falling as his mind starts spinning anew. "He could have only known what I am if…”

“If he is a Lycan himself,” Steve finishes, tightening his hold around Tony and rocking gently. “You were too young to shift; he would have known that. He locked you up so you couldn’t escape while _he_ shifted. _Fuck._ ” There’s a beat of silence, and Steve stills before pulling away enough to be able to stare down into Tony’s face. “How long ago did you turn twenty-five?”

“Nine months ago. Why?”

“Rumlow showed up at the ranch eight months ago. And now, this Raza guy has shown up and is working with him… It can’t be a coincidence. If Stane found you, knew where you ended up, he could have sent Rumlow to find you, to bring you back.”

“You think Stane was looking for me? Why?”

“Omegas are rare,” Steve murmurs. “If Stane is an alpha, maybe he thought…” 

Tony’s lip curls in disgust. “Ew, _no_. He wouldn’t… besides, when Rumlow found me, he tried to kill me, remember? If Stane wants me for… what you think he wants me for, I’d be no good to him dead.”

“I don’t think Rumlow attacked you for Stane,” Steve says thoughtfully. “I expect he tried to kill you at my place because he remembered you or your scent from the clearing. The anger he felt toward you that day, it was personal. I think when Bucky saved you, Rumlow decided you are just as responsible for his friend’s deaths as Bucky. But if Stane did send Rumlow to find you, he would have been looking for a wolf—an alpha or omega, not a human. You would have had the right name and face but the wrong scent. But if he attacks now, he’s going to know,” Steve adds. “You smell like… well. There’s no mistaking it.” 

“What do I smell like?” Tony asks, surreptitiously dropping his head low to try and sniff himself. Jesus, if he smells like a wet dog...

“A wolf,” Steve smiles. 

“No,” Bucky says grimly. “He smells like an _omega._ ”

Steve’s jaw sets, and something passes between the two men that Tony doesn’t understand. “What? Why does that matter? What am I missing?”

“It’s not about what _you’re_ missing; it’s about what Rumlow is,” Steve grinds out. “He may not be interested in hauling you back to Stane now.”

“Okay, well,” Tony draws out, trying desperately to join the dots while fighting the feeling he’s missing a few “that sounds like a good thing, right?”

“Rumlow has his own pack now, he knows how to shift at will, the only thing he doesn’t have is a suitable bondmate.” 

A shiver trembles down Tony’s spine, the missing dots finally lighting up neon in his brain. “ _Ah_. Let me guess, that would be an omega?”

Bucky nods. “That would be _you.”_


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Trigger Warning. This chapter (and many of those remaining) involves human|animal, vampire|animal, and animal|animal violence. The level of descriptiveness holds with the previous chapters. The animals in question are mostly Lycans, so, technically kind of people, if that helps?

Steve stares at the three lycans in his living room, apprehension unfurling in his gut. “Nat? Where is everyone?”

“This _is_ everyone. At least, everyone we have left.”

“But what about—”

“They left after our uninvited guest showed its furry snout yesterday. Said it wasn’t their fight.”

Steve opens his mouth before clamping it closed again, trying to swallow the dread now clawing its way up his throat. The odds weren’t high before, and that was before they knew about Stane. Now, surviving the coming fight seems impossible.

They could try and make a run for it. The idea grates at him instantly. He doesn’t want to turn tail and abandon his home. The thought startles him. _Home._ Not so long ago, this house and the land surrounding it had felt like an anchor around his neck, pulling him down, drowning him in responsibility and regrets. When had these four walls started to feel like home? His brain supplies the answer immediately—the same time the pack he’d initially seen as a burden had become family. Dysfunctional and fractured, but family all the same.

And he’s not the only one who had found somewhere to belong. Tony has a life here, and Steve can’t ask him to leave it behind. Not when it wouldn’t even come with the guarantee of safety. If Stane _had_ tracked Tony here, he could do it again somewhere else. No, their only chance is making a stand here… and pray they are still standing when the dust settles.

Mind set, Steve eyes the twins, side-by-side behind Nat. They’d arrived only two moons ago, scared and desperate, and though fiercely loyal to each other, Steve isn’t sure how much of that allegiance extends to their new pack. The last to arrive, he had expected them to be the first to flee. 

“If you need to leave, too, it’s okay, I’ll understand. I just need you to tell me now.”

In perfect harmony, the twins’ eyes flick from Tony—with open curiosity—to Bucky—with wary suspicion—before coming to rest back on Steve.

“No, we’re staying.” Pietro’s voice is firm. “This is our fight, too.”

“You took us in when no one else would,” Wanda adds softly. “You’ve given us so much and asked for nothing in return. This is our home, and you are our family. We will fight with you.”

“ _Thank you._ ” The words aren’t enough, not even close, but it’s all Steve has. Knowing the answer before he asks the question, his eyes settle on his best friend. “Nat? The same goes for—”

“Oh, please, Rogers. I’ve been waiting eight months to take a bite out of Rumlow. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Okay.” He plants his hands on his hips as he looks around at the faces staring back at him expectantly, like he has all the answers. And, _shit,_ he knows he is supposed to, but it feels like his entire life has been one big show, ‘fake it till you make it’ taken to the extreme. Why should now be any different?

“Well, then, that’s all we need. They may have the numbers, but we have more than enough strength and smarts and heart in this room to take on whatever they throw at us.” Steve smiles, inclining his head toward Bucky. “And we’ve got a vampire, too. That’s gotta be worth something.”

Bucky’s lips twitch, his eyes flashing like he wants to show Steve exactly how much it’s worth, but Nat’s mocking snort draws his attention.

“I don’t know, Steve. He looks quite well-fed,” Nat smirks. “I’m not sure he’s going to be motivated enough to get his fangs dirty.”

“Oh, I’m plenty motivated,” Bucky replies dryly. “In fact, the only bite you’re going to get out of Rumlow is from his corpse after I’ve ripped his head from his body.”

“Hmm, is that so? How about a wager, Blood Boy? Fifty bucks to the one that brings him down.” Nat extends her hand to Bucky.

Bucky hesitates only a moment before clasping it in his. “You’re on.”

“Nice to see you two getting along,” Steve laughs, turning away as they start arguing about the most efficient way to take down prey.

His gaze finds Tony, standing by the couch, a far off look in his eye as he stares into space. Steve frowns. Tony had been uncharacteristically quiet since this morning. They had cobbled together a hasty plan, deciding the ranch is the best, most easily defensible place, and away from possible civilian casualties. Afterward, Tony had disappeared into the bathroom wrapped in a sheet and come out dressed, determination etched into the tight lines of his face. He had packed a bag, and climbed into the passenger seat of his own truck, staring out the window as Steve drove them home. All without a word. 

Steve hadn’t pressed, hoping the withdrawn silence was just Tony’s way of processing his new reality and the looming threats that had, unfortunately, come along with it, and nothing to do with last night. 

_Last night._

Taking Tony had been nothing like Steve had ever known, the feeling of filling him, again and again, until his belly was full, and he’d fallen asleep, making soft, contented mewling sounds when Steve had wrapped his arms around him. It had been almost perfect. _Almost._ The only thing missing was Bucky. 

The memory of the three of them moving together, the feel of Tony’s tight body clenching around his, Bucky’s light eyes blown dark with lust staring up at him, seeing his own motions ripple through Tony and into Bucky…

Heat shoots down his spine, his body reacting to the sights and sounds seared into his memory despite his inappropriate surroundings. But the swelling in his pants has nothing on the one in his chest, nor the ache at the thought of never experiencing that again. 

“—Steve?”

“Hmm?” Steve turns, trying to shake the images from his mind. “Sorry, I was just… planning. For tomorrow night.”

“Mhm.” Nat gives him a knowing look, and Steve tries futilely to stop his cheeks from warming. “I promised these two—” she jerks her head toward the twins “—that I’d show them a few moves. So, I guess we’ll leave you three to…” her eyebrows twitch up, dancing above green eyes sparkling with amusement. “ _Strategize_.”

“ _Nat_.” Steve barely bites back the groan. Though Nat has a laundry list of amazingly positive attributes, subtlety will never be listed among them. 

“What?” She asks innocently. “I’m sure that’s what the kids are calling it these—”

The sharp intake of breath has everyone turning in Tony’s direction. 

Panic bolts through Steve like a lightning strike, so intense it feels like a physical blow. He can smell the sour scent burning from Tony’s skin and feel an echo of the fear rushing through his trembling body as the connection between them is made. 

Tony’s wide eyes are brimming with wet terror as he twists his neck toward the open door. His nostrils flare. “ _Obie.”_

Steve follows Tony’s line of sight, expecting to see a looming shadow blocking the bright sunlight streaming through the frame, but it’s empty. He turns back to Tony… but he’s gone. 

Steve’s fear-steeped brain—oaked in Tony’s and his own—takes a split second to process what happened. “Nat!” He jerks his head to the door as he curls his hand around Bucky’s arm, stopping him from speeding to the door as Nat disappears through it. “ _Buck! No! Stop!_ You can’t help him now.”

“Steve—” Bucky jerks toward the door once more, and it takes all of Steve’s strength to keep Bucky from bolting, his own feet skidding forward over the floor under the effort. He doesn’t know what’s happening to Tony,but he knows what will happen to Bucky if he goes outside now, with the sun right above them and no storm to diffuse the light. Steve’s stomach clenches violently at the thought.

“ _No!_ You’re no good to anyone as a pile of ash,” Steve barks at him before lowering his voice. “ _Stay here_. Trust me, Buck. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

Bucky growls but stops struggling, and Steve rushes from the room, praying Bucky will wait, and that he can keep his own promise. 

He speeds from the house, sweeping his eyes over the scene before him. Tony is visibly shaking on his knees in the snow, Nat crouching in a defensive position in front of him, facing the line of Lycans just inside the fence line. 

The largest man, bald but with a greying beard, is flanked by two smaller men Steve doesn’t recognize and four wolves he does: Sitwell, Kaminsky, Zola, and Hale. Four of his former pack, deserters now loyal to Rumlow.

Steve hadn’t been particularly close with them. They’d been outliers with Rumlow, sticking to the fringes. Still, they’d hunted as a pack, shared meals, and run together under the moon. They had been his family. But now, they’re a threat to it.

“I’m Obediah Stane,” the balding man proclaims in a tone dripping with self-importance. He pauses, his calculating eyes raking over Steve’s face for a flicker of recognition, frowning when Steve doesn’t so much as twitch. “I’ve come for my omega.”

The acrid scent of fear burns sharper, and Tony’s pulse increases, his heart all but beating out of his chest. Steve can taste Tony’s terror on the air. He’s so _scared_. Scared of Stane, of course, but something else, too. Worried Steve will hand him over? Steve wants to go to him, to wrap his arms around Tony. But he can’t. He can’t turn his back on Stane.

“He’s not yours,” Steve growls. “And you’re not welcome here. You and your pack need to leave.” 

“This doesn’t have to get unpleasant,” Stane addresses Steve directly. His greasy words slide out from between curved lips. “Just hand over the omega, and none of your pack will be harmed. You have my word.”

Stane’s refusal to call Tony by name, treating him like an object, _a prize_ , sets Steve’s teeth on edge. He would die before handing Tony over to this monster. “Tony’s not going anywhere,” he states firmly.

Stane scoffs incredulously. “You’d really sacrifice the lives of what’s left of your pack for some broken little bitch you’ve just met?” 

Steve wants to punch the patronizing smirk right off the bastard’s face and keep going until he’s nothing but a bloody smear in the snow. Steve wants to make this cruel, pathetic excuse for a man pay for every pain he’s ever inflicted on Tony. He wants Stane dead.

His hands curl into fists at his side as his eyes dart over the seven Lycans spread out before him, sizing them up. If it’s a show of strength, meant to intimidate and bully them into handing Tony over, they would have brought more. Rumlow and Rollins and however many Stane has with him. No, they hadn’t come for show, they’d come to fight… and brought just as many as they are willing to sacrifice.

Steve’s heart speeds up in his chest, now keeping pace with the echo of Tony’s in his ears. They’re outmatched in number and strength, and the sun is too high and bright for Bucky to be of any use out here. They’ve lost the advantage, but he needs Tony inside, safe. Steve just needs to buy enough time to allow Nat to get him there. If they’re followed, Bucky can defend them.

“Tony _is_ my pack now, and we will fight to protect him if it comes to it. If there are losses, they will be on both sides. Are you willing to lay your life on the line to try and take him by force?”

Stane’s composure slips for a moment, but then an ugly sneer curls his lips and deadens his eyes. “Ahh, you’ve already had a taste of him, is that it? Got your knot wet and now—”

Steve growls a warning as he takes a step forward, but Tony’s hand clamps onto his wrist, squeezing. “Steve, don’t. _Please._ ” 

It’s the desperation in Tony’s voice that gives Steve pause, and it takes every ounce of his self-restraint to step back as Stane’s guffawing fills the air. 

“Oh, would you look at that, boys. I haven’t seen such a whipped alpha since Tony’s father let himself be led around by the knot like some lovesick pup.” Stane smiles coldly. “Shame, I would have liked to have done this without the fuss, but I can’t say it’s all bad. The mutt always did look better with a few marks on him.”

The hairs on the back of Steve’s neck arc up, the shift in the air palpable. The _for show_ geniality of moments ago is gone, Stane’s true nature now laid bare. 

“ _Natasha, take Tony into the house and lock the door._ ” Steve’s Command comes a split second before the wolves draw back on their haunches like the cocking of a gun. The frustrated growl behind him, along with Tony’s shouted objections, fill the tense beat of anticipation before the wolves spring forward.

Steve’s hand closes around grey-white fur, grabbing the tail of the wolf—Sitwell—attempting to rush past him on the left, and kicks his leg out to knock the wolf on his right off course. The third wolf charges straight at his chest, leaping up and knocking him to the ground. 

Steve lands hard, the impact forces the air from his lungs. The wolf on his chest—Zola—lunges at his face, and he raises his forearm, pressing it deep between the open jaws, wedging it all the way back to the hinges, ignoring the way his skin catches on sharp teeth. The move seems to confuse the wolf. Zola whines as she pulls back, those sharp teeth scraping over Steve’s broken skin in reverse.

Sitwell fights against the hold on his tail, the motions twinging Steve’s arm painfully in its socket. Razor claws carve deep grooves into his arm, sending warm blood spilling over his skin and soaking into the cold snow below. Black lips pull up as Sitwell snarls. Red gums and white fangs snap inches from Steve’s face as the wolf tries to break free. But Steve’s hand tightens and jerks when teeth sink into his calf. His shout of pain echoes Sitwell’s as the wolf lunges at him. Steve shifts just in time, and the sharp peaks sink into his shoulder instead of his neck. 

The wolf clamped on his leg shakes its head, slashing through his flesh and Steve clenches his own mouth shut, trapping the howl within. He raises his uninjured leg and brings his boot down hard on Zola, again and again, even as he grabs Sitwell’s head in his hands and tries to yank it from his shoulder. His blood-slicked hands paint the light fur red as he grips Sitwell's snout. Steve curls his fingers down, digging into the creature’s gums, trying to yank it’s muzzle up. His fingers slip on the first try but find purchase on the second, and the long teeth slide from his body chased by a crimson rush.   
  
A growl bursts from Steve’s throat, filled with fury and pain, as he twists the head in his hand roughly. The wolf's neck snaps with a crack before it goes limp.

A ripple sweeps through the fur as it recedes, like wind through grass. It shrinks back into the broken form until there’s nothing but Sitwell’s naked body, chest down, head staring up at the sky. 

Steve shoves the corpse away and rolls, grim satisfaction curving his lips as the wolf latched onto his leg releases him with a yelp. Adrenaline trembles through him as he pushes to his knees and twists back to the house. Relief floods his veins. The door is closed. Tony and Nat made it inside; they’re safe.

The impact against his back catches him off-guard and sends him sprawling face-first into the snow. The frozen ground muffles his scream as teeth sink into his side. Agony roars through him as more sink into his thigh, and the third wolf bites into his left bicep.

Steve tries to push up with his free arm, but the wolf’s heavy weight on his lower back traps his weakened body on the ground. The rocks hidden beneath the icy cover scrape at his cheek as he drags his face to the side. 

The snow around him is soaked red, bright trails leading into deep, dark pools. But beyond that, at the edge of his darkening vision, there’s fur. 

Steve’s arm feels leaden and unwieldy as he flings it out toward the blurry grey shape, stretching his fingers, seeking anything solid. His hand curls around something long and thin. _Foreleg_ , his brain supplies fuzzily. He angles his shoulders, dragging his other arm from under him to grip the limb. With a twist and pull, the bone snaps. One set of teeth withdraw, a high pitched whine sounding as the other two lift then drive back in.

Steve can feel claws and teeth ripping into his body, slicing through skin and shredding the muscle beneath, but there’s no pain now, just pressure and movement as they tear at him, his body jostling on the ground.

His heart is racing in his chest, but it feels wrong… empty, hollow. The metallic scent of his own life spilling out onto the ground dances on the air. He needs to get up, needs to kill the wolves, needs to save Tony. But his body is heavy, and his brain is spinning but sluggish, and he can’t seem to make his limbs move. He’s just tired... and cold. He can’t remember the last time he’d been cold. He closes his eyes. 

Tony will be okay; he has Bucky. Bucky will protect him. Bucky is strong, stronger than him. Tony will be okay. They both will… 

It’s the shriek that makes Steve open his eyes, and he realizes slowly that the weight atop him is gone. He leverages himself up with weak, shaky arms, twisting before he flops back down onto his back. He blinks, but the dark silhouette blocking the sun doesn’t fade. 

“—cking touch him again, and you’ll be dead before I am.”

The voice, fierce and familiar, drifts down from above, settling onto his skin like a prayer.

_Bucky._

There’s a low murmur before Bucky’s voice reaches him once more.

“I would die for him. Can you say the same for _them_?”

The calming scent of Nat fills the air above him as small, warm hands are pressing against his skin. And then Wanda’s scent. And Pietro’s. And then...   
  


. . .

Something wet drags over Steve’s side. Again and again. The pain of the slow drag turns from sharp to dull, and finally numb. 

He’s trembling, shivering, still so cold though he can feel he’s no longer in the snow. His bed’s familiar softness is a comfort to his aching body, but his mind is agitated, failing to remember how he’d come to be here. The memories swim in and out of reach, hazy and dark. 

Tony. Stane. The wolves. Bucky. ... _The sun._

“ _Bucky!_ ” Steve’s eyes fly open, and he tries to sit up. Warm hands press down on his shoulders as a blurred shape hovers into view above him. “Bucky?” It takes him a dozen attempts before he blinks the world into focus. It’s not Bucky, it’s... “Tony? You’re okay.” 

“Yeah,” Tony huffs out a shaky breath. “Yeah, I’m okay, and you’re going to be, too.”

Something falls onto Steve’s face. Wet. Salty. ...Tears. Is Tony crying? Everything is moving much too slowly, his brain struggling to make sense of anything. “Where’s Bucky? Is he okay? What’s wrong?”

“Shh, it’s okay. Nothing’s wrong. Just keep your eyes open and keep talking to me, okay?” Tony rasps, voice thick. He sweeps his hand through Steve’s hair as he blinks wetly, his gaze sliding from Steve’s face down to his side. 

Steve strains, craning to lift his neck to follow the gaze, and finally understands the sensation swiping across his skin.Bucky is bent over him, dragging his tongue over the mess of Steve’s mangled flesh. “Buck? Are you okay?”

Bucky turns to look at him, and Steve can’t stop the strangled noise tearing from his throat at the sight of the blackened, withered skin of Bucky’s face. 

“I’m okay, Steve,” Bucky says roughly. “Just lie back, let me help you.”

Steve’s gaze catches on the mix of blood, red and black, smeared across his skin. His stagnant brain works hard to join the dots. Bucky is healing him, giving him his blood. _The blood he needs._ Steve shakes his head, frantically. Bucky looks a breath away from dissolving into ash, from disappearing and never coming back. “No, I—you need your blood, you need mine—“

Tony moves behind Bucky, wrapping arms around him, helping him sit up, taking his weight as blistered hands reach for Steve’s shoulders. Bucky tries to push Steve back as he struggles to sit but doesn’t have the strength. “Nat,” he croaks. 

Nat is there in a second, face pinched tight as she forces Steve back down onto the bed and keeps him there. “Just relax, Steve. We’ve got you.”

“ _No!_ ” Steve’s voice screams in his head but falls from his lips weakly. “He needs me, needs blood, to heal... He’s going to—”

“You don’t have enough blood to spare right now,” Nat says grimly. “Bucky is going to heal you, and then, when your body has recovered, you can return the favor.”

There’s a strange tightness in Steve’s side, a tingling, burning sensation that feels somehow far away, like a memory flashing through his body. He wants to fight against Nat’s hold, to make Bucky drink from him, but he feels like he’s melting back against the pillows, his limbs turning heavy, his mind going soft. Bucky’s saliva seeping into his veins is making his brain feel floaty, drugged, and he can’t— he can’t—

He can feel Bucky laving at the wound on his thigh now. “ _Buck, no…_ ”

“It’s okay, Stevie. You’re gonna be okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s the last thing Steve hears before he slips under. 


	19. Chapter 19

Fire licks through Bucky's veins. 

It's been hours since Nat had dragged him into the guesthouse, but he can still feel the sun scorching at his skin. As each second crawls by, he tries to focus on anything other than the constant, endless agony. But he's survived worse, odds are he'll survive this, and if he doesn't… it's okay. If he had it to do over, he wouldn't hesitate. The pain screaming through his body is nothing on the agony he'd felt seeing Steve lying on the ground, unmoving as the wolves had torn him apart, the pristine snow melting into a river of red.

Beside him on the bed, Steve shifts in his sleep, groaning. He's been out for almost two hours, but the color has returned to his face, and his breathing has deepened and steadied. 

Steve had kept his promise, he had kept Tony safe, but Bucky hadn't been willing to let Steve sacrifice his own life to do it. 

But Bucky should have gone to him _sooner,_ shouldn't have waited. By the time they'd carried Steve inside, it had almost been too late. Bucky's blood worked slowly to mend the mangled flesh and gnawed bones, his sun-weakened state slowing his own healing as well as Steve's. He'd never felt so utterly helpless, watching Steve's life drain out of him, but he'd worked tirelessly, lapping at the shredded skin with his slit tongue, hoping his saliva would help ease the pain until his blood had time to work. 

Light slices into the room as Tony peeks out from behind the drawn curtains for the umpteenth time. Bucky can feel the agitation and fear flooding from Tony's skin, too intense to be contained, turning the air acidic. The constant checking is pointless, but it gives him something to focus on, so Bucky doesn't say a word. 

He's sure Stane won't be back today. The dogs need time to regroup, to factor _him_ into their plans. But then, he'd been certain they wouldn't come before the full moon, either. The wolves today weren't weak like the ones that attacked Tony, they'd been almost as strong as those in a natural shift. Though today had been a shitshow, and they'd lost the element of surprise, they have at least put a small dent in Rumlow's ranks. Three down, a pack to go. 

The room falls dark once more as Tony releases the curtain and starts pacing again. He'd offered up his blood as soon as Steve had passed out, his face falling when Bucky had been forced to admit it would hurt him more than help. 

Though Bucky knows how it feels to have the whole world pulled out from under him, he's at a loss at how to comfort Tony while he's trapped under the shadow of his own guilt. The blame for today can be laid squarely at Bucky's feet. If only he hadn't been there _that night_ , if only Tony's parents hadn't died, Tony wouldn't be some pawn in a twisted game of tug-of-war for two alphas. Bucky's eyes drift to Steve. _Three_ alphas. 

Steve is in love with Tony. There can be no disputing it now. You don't lay your life on the line for someone you don't truly love. But despite his feelings for Tony, it's Bucky's name screaming past Steve's lips as he bolts upright into consciousness. 

"I'm right here, Steve." The words scrape roughly from Bucky's raw throat. "I told you I wasn't going anywhere." The guilt burns a little brighter. _For now, at least._

Steve turns toward him, hand outstretched, but stops himself, letting it hover over Bucky's face. Bucky knows what he must look like, must be all but unrecognizable if his face is anything like the rest of his body. Steve's seen him like this before, once, and the same pain that had twisted his features then is pinching his face tight now.

" _Buck_ … you should have stayed inside," Steve rasps.

"And let you have all the fun?" Bucky tries for a smile. He fails.

"You could have died out there."

" _You_ almost did," Bucky counters.

Steve shakes his head and lifts his wrist to Bucky's mouth. "Drink," he commands. "You saved me, let me do the same for you." Steve presses his wrist against Bucky's lips and waits.

Bucky can feel the warmth of Steve's blood throbbing through the thin skin, the rushing sound of it filling his ears like a siren song, and he can't resist the lure. His fangs sink into Steve's body easily, the flesh yielding under the pressure, welcoming him home. Bucky's eyelids fall closed as the thick liquid slides over his tongue. He sucks at the wound, coaxing more blood out of Steve's body and pulling it into his own. The pleasure borne from the bite lights him up, spiraling down to his gut, and he throbs in time with Steve's pulse against his sticky lips. 

"That's enough," Steve says roughly after a few long moments, gently trying to tug his arm away from Bucky's lips even as cool hands try to bring it closer. "Gotta do this slowly, Buck. You remember what happened last time."

Bucky growls low in his throat, his instinct to keep feeding rebelling against the truth of Steve's words. But he can feel Steve's blood warming his body, the agony easing and the burning of his skin subsiding, and he releases Steve reluctantly. He slices his tongue, then laps over the puncture marks. The wounds on Steve's arm close quickly and Bucky licks at the last rivulets of blood leaking from the shrinking holes, lifting the lingering red stains from Steve's skin.

"What happened last time?" Tony's quiet voice drifts out from the darkness.

Steve twists toward the sound, his tight shoulders relaxing when his gaze finds Tony lingering by the door, but he doesn't answer. He just stares at Tony like he's worried the omega will disappear without his eyes tethering him in place.

Bucky tears his own gaze away from Steve staring at Tony. He looks down at his hands. The black, blistered flesh is healing, fading into a deep red like some macabre sunrise. With more blood or time for his body to use it, his skin will turn a flushed pink, the color of Steve's cheeks after Bucky's teasing, before returning to its usual, unnatural pale tone. Only then will the dull ache of his body fully subside. But for now, he can wait, no longer feeling like he's clinging to death's door. Physically, at least. 

"Last time," Bucky murmurs in the wake of Steve's continuing silence, "I almost killed him."

"And today, _I_ almost did," Tony whispers.

"No, you didn't," Steve says, shifting on the bed. He rubs his thumb over the healed skin of his wrist absently. "Nothing that happened today is your fault, Tony." 

"What are you talking about? _Everything_ that happened today was my fault. Obie was only—"

Steve tenses. "What happened to Stane? Is everyone else okay? Nat and—"

"Everyone's fine," Tony soothes, taking a couple of steps toward the bed. "They're in the house, safe. Everything is secured, and we're going to take shifts to—"

"And Stane? His pack?"

"Bucky took care of the two wolves attacking you. The one whose leg you broke hung back, it wouldn't attack you with Bucky there. And Obie wouldn't attack Bucky himself. He was scared." Tony smiles at that. "Once Nat and the twins went out, he blustered a bit, said it wasn't over, and then left."

Bucky remains quiet, deciding it's best not to add that if Stane had blustered for another five minutes, none of them would be here to have this conversation. Steve would have bled out, Bucky a blanket of ash over him, and Stane would have taken Tony. 

"They'll be back," Steve mutters. "Stane won't stop until he has what he came for, or until he can't come back at all." Anger storms across his face.

"He's not getting Tony. Next time, we'll be ready for them," Bucky says firmly, smiling tightly when Steve looks in his direction. "They won't have the sun advantage. If they come tomorrow, we'll make a stand inside. Make them come where we want them."

Steve's eyes go wide, his head swinging away from Bucky. "Tony? What's wrong?"

Tony hesitates. "Nothing."

"Yes, there is. You smell like lemons when you're upset."

"What? No, I—I do?"

"To me, yeah. Talk to me. Please?"

The small answering sigh hangs in the otherwise silent room for long enough that Bucky thinks Tony is just going to ignore the request, and clam up like he's been doing since this morning. But then, he takes another step toward the bed, wringing his hands, and finally finds his voice... or the courage to use it.

"It's just… Do you think, I mean, tomorrow night, I think maybe you should lock me up."

_"What?"_

_"No!"_ The idea of chaining Tony up like a dog, like a monster… The thought is a shockwave, making him reel. _A monster._ Isn't that what he'd accused Steve of being? Like him. And he'd meant it in the moment. And if Steve is a monster, so too must Tony be. But Bucky had been wrong. He knows what real monsters look like, has felt the teeth of their hatred, and the cold, cruel venom of their malice. No, Steve and Tony are good and kind. They would sacrifice themselves before hurting anyone else, especially each other… or _him_. 

Tony's frustrated huff breaks through Bucky's thoughts. 

"It's all my fault! I couldn't control myself today. I shouldn't have gone outside. I don't even know what… Jesus, I don't remember moving. I just smelled Obie, and then, I was there, on my knees. I ran _to_ him. I should have stayed put or run in the opposite fucking direction, but I just... I don't know. It's like I wasn't in control of myself and if that happens tomorrow night—"

"Shh, Tony, it's okay."

"No, it's not. I could get you both killed!"

Steve's brow creases in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Obie was controlling those wolves today. I don't know how, but I watched him. It sounds stupid, but I know what I saw. What if—what if I shift tomorrow night, and he can control me, too? What if he makes me attack you, or uses me as bait or—"

"He can't control you."

"But you controlled Nat. You made her leave when she didn't want to, made her take me into the house."

"That's different."

"What if it's not? I can't take that chance. I almost lost you today, _both of you,_ " Tony chokes out thickly. "He said I'm _his_ omega. What if—"

"You're not his," Steve growls.

The way Steve says the words unlocks something in Bucky's chest. It's not jealousy like he expects, but _yearning._ He finds Steve's gaze, and in it, there's nothing but fierce protectiveness, possessiveness, and profound love. Love for Tony… and for _him_. It washes over Bucky, warm and familiar, soaking into his skin and filling all those hollow places he thought would remain aching and empty forever. 

The Steve-shaped hole carved into his very core the day he had turned away from the man he loved finally begins to heal. He'd thought he was saving Steve by leaving, protecting him. But he'd been wrong, so very wrong. How could he better protect Steve than by remaining at his side? If he weren't here today, Steve would be dead. Tony would be dead. 

The withered husk inside his chest blooms with something… something _hopeful_ , and the blood— _Steve's blood —_crawling through his veins flows a little quicker. He'd spurned the curse thrust upon him, the cursed gift of _time._ Before he'd met Steve and since leaving him, he'd wandered the earth like a ghost, not living, just existing. It has only been since meeting Tony and reuniting with Steve, that Bucky has started to feel... to feel _anything_ again. They've been the spark of life reigniting his heart, saving him from himself.

Maybe what he feels for Tony is borne of blood, from an unexpected connection decades in the making, but does that make it any less real? Stane's words echo back to him, ringing in his ears: _'Are you willing to risk your life for him?'_ The answer had flowed over Bucky's lips without thought. He hadn't needed to think about it; he'd felt the truth of it in his bones. He would die for Steve without question or hesitation, just as he would for Tony… and you don't lay your life on the line for someone you don't truly love. It may not burn with the same intensity as his feelings for Steve, feelings developed over the years spent together, but it _is_ love. It is _real._

Finally, Bucky surrenders. He can't fight it anymore, doesn't _want_ to fight it. He lifts his gaze to Tony, tracing the anxious lines creasing his beautiful face, studying the wet eyes filled with fear. "No, you're not his," Bucky agrees. "You're _ours_."

Bucky can feel Steve's gaze on him, and he meets it. Confusion, doubt, and hope wage war in the dark depths, but at Bucky's nod, they clear, shining brightly with nothing but joy. Steve takes Bucky's hand and threads their fingers together, warm against cool, and Bucky's sure that if he had breath to catch, it would be lodged in his throat, seized by the wide smile pushing pretty crinkles around Steve's eyes—years of pain peeling away until Bucky can see the beautiful, unbridled spirit he'd fallen in love with in that alley a lifetime ago.

Steve reaches his other hand out toward Tony. "Yeah, you're _ours_... If you want to be."

Tony stares down at the offered hand, his brow furrowing. "I don't—what? Did I get hit on the head? A concussion would explain a lot." He runs a hand through his hair tentatively, like he expects to find evidence of trauma. "I just, I don't understand what's happening right now. You're not… you aren't interested. The last time I was in this room, on that very bed, you made that abundantly clear. And you—" Tony frowns at Bucky, "—you had your chance in the kitchen and hard passed, so you can see why all this _ours_ business is giving me a little emotional whiplash."

"Kitchen? Did you two…" Steve quirks an eyebrow, his gaze darting between Tony and Bucky curiously.

Tony blushes, his gaze dropping to his feet. The strange, sweet scent that Bucky has come to realize is the smell of Tony's arousal floods the air, and his own body throbs messily in response. 

"Don't worry, Steve. That was _after_ you had your mouth on him."

" _What?_ " Tony squawks, his head snapping back up, wide eyes locking on Steve's. " _You told him?_ "

"No, he didn't say anything. I could smell you on his breath."

"Oh, Jesus." Tony's hands come up to cover his face. 

"But, I'm sorry. I should never have taken advantage of you that night. I was just…" _Stupid. Aroused. Envious._ Tony's fingers slide together, steepling over his nose, allowing beautiful brown eyes to fix on his, waiting. But Bucky can't finish the sentence and just shrugs. "I'm sorry."

The hands drop from Tony's face, no longer confused, just irritated. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he huffs. "If one more person apologizes for giving me an orgasm, I swear to god, I'll—" he clamps his jaw shut and shakes his head.

Steve smiles fondly at the very Tony-like display. "Yeah? You'll _what,_ exactly?"

"I, uh… Fuck, I don't know. I'll make them give me another just out of spite."

Bucky makes a low noise in his throat. "I'd like to see that. You're so pretty when you come, and you smell delicious."

"He _tastes_ delicious, too," Steve husks out.

Tony's feet shuffle closer to the bed, the sweet scent of arousal stronger now. But heavy-lidded eyes snap shut, and he shakes his head again before reopening them. "No. You can't just say pretty things from your stupidly gorgeous face and distract me, Steve. Why did you want to _talk_ instead of fucking me?"

"Last time you were here, you were human. Or…" Steve bobs his head to the side. "Kind of."

"Right," Tony draws out slowly, clearly not understanding the answer. "So, humans aren't good enough for you? Are you some kind of speciesist? If I wasn't an omega, would we even be having this conversation?"

As realization dawns, Bucky can't help the dark laugh that tumbles from his lips, and both heads twist in his direction. "Just show him, Steve."

"Show me what?"

"No, It's not—I'm not—"

" _Bullshit._ I can smell you leaking. For me. For him. You've been hard since I sank my teeth you." Bucky's lips twitch. "As usual."

Steve finally recoils his hand to scrub it over the pretty flush ripening the back of his neck. 

"I'm not sure if everything is going over my head because I'm still stuck at 'supernatural shit one-oh-one', or if this is some kind of ex-lover's shorthand, but whatever the case, I am going to need some kind of show and tell using large diagrams and small words because I have no fucking clue what you're on about." Tony groans. " _As usual_."

Steve squirms on the bed, and affection blooms inside Bucky. Steve's body may have changed, but his mannerisms hadn't, nor his complete inability to hide his desires. 

"It'll just get harder the longer you wait." Bucky doesn't mean it _that_ way, but Steve's blush deepens. There's only a beat of hesitation before he unfastens his jeans, and hops his hips off the bed as he shoves the pants down to his thighs. 

Tony's eyes go wide, and his mouth follows suit as he steps closer to the bed. "Uh, what exactly..."

Never one to pass up the opportunity to tease, loving the way pretty flushes burn down Steve's neck and dance over his chest, Bucky murmurs, "You have an inner lube factory, and Steve has a built-in buttplug."

Steve turns and glares at him, cheeks more red than pink, and Bucky realizes the transformation of Steve's body is still relatively new to him, too. Bucky hadn't even thought to ask Steve about it, doesn't know if he likes the changes, or loathes them. Bucky remembers how self-conscious Steve was when they first got together, trying to cover bony hips and prominent ribs with thin arms and broad palms. It had taken Bucky time to reassure Steve with soft praises, filthy words, and lingering kisses that he was perfect. Had been then, still is now.

Bucky runs a hand along Steve's thigh, curving down over the muscle, coming to rest a whisper away from Steve's cock. "It's magnificent, isn't it? Just like everything else on our boy."

Steve's cock twitches at that, translucent precome welling and spilling over, running from the flushed head, down the shaft toward the already bulging knot. His hand covers Bucky's and squeezes.

"Can I—" Tony licks his lips. "Can I touch it?"

"Here, let me." Bucky's healed enough that he makes quick work of Steve's shoes and jeans, removing both and discarding them before Tony has closed the remaining distance to the bed. Bucky settles back beside Steve with a smirk.

"Jesus, Buck. A little warning next time."

"Mhm, stop pretending you don't love it when I manhandle you, Stevie. I'm just giving Tony better access."

Steve shuffles back on the bed next to Bucky, crossing his legs to give Tony room to settle on to the mattress in front of him. Tony raises his hand, reaching out toward Steve, but hesitates. 

"Yeah, of course, you can, it's just—" he breaks off, hissing when Tony wraps his hand around the knot and squeezes.

"Shit, sorry!" Tony pulls his hand back as if burned, his cheeks on fire.

"Uh, no, it's okay. It's just really—"

"Sensitive," Tony finishes. He swallows thickly before reaching out a finger to trail around the engorged flesh lightly. "You could have told me it was a genetic condition. I would have believed you," he murmurs, wrapping his hand around the swollen base very carefully.

"Oh, yeah, because that's so sexy," Steve mutters. 

"It really kind of is," Tony breathes, eyes not wavering. "Is this why I felt so full last night? This was inside me?"

Steve nods mutely, and Bucky chuckles softly. "And why your belly was so full this morning. Stevie should have had the decency to clean you out after the mess he made of you."

Tony's hand clenches, and he shoots Steve an apologetic look at the resulting gasp. "Is that, are you—I mean, is that something you're into?"

"Uh, that was a long time ago."

"So wolfing out into a big, strong alpha means you're not the desperate little come slut you used to be? I remember you begging—"

"Oh, fuck, shut up," Steve moans. His cock reveals the truth of Bucky's words, leaking all over Tony's hand.

"Why? You gonna spill all over Tony with nothing more than a few dirty words?" Bucky slides his hand between the bed and Steve's bare ass, letting his fingers find the _other_ super sensitive place on Steve's body.

"Ughh, Bucky, _fuck!"_ Steve grinds down against Bucky's fingers rubbing up against his hole. 

"You're making such a mess, baby. Look at you, drooling all over yourself. Tony, sweetheart, you wanna help clean him up a bit?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Tony murmurs before pitching forward and wrapping his lips around Steve's cock, groaning as his cheeks hollow and his head bobs, working up and down the length of him even as his hands continue massaging the still-swelling knot. 

" _Tony!_ " Steve's hands thread through Tony's hair, forming desperate fists, urging him down further. "Oh, shit, yeah, just like that."

Bucky presses harder against Steve's rim, pushing inside his body, forcing him open. Steve rocks his hips over the bed, jerking up into Tony's mouth before driving back down, grinding on Bucky's hand, whimpering, head back, mouth open. 

"Fuck, you two look so gorgeous together. Tony's pretty lips wrapped around your cock may be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." 

Tony hums happily and reaches out to squeeze Bucky's thigh with his free hand, and Bucky runs his hands through the short strands at Tony's nape. "You're making Steve feel so good with that perfect little mouth of yours, Tony. Such a good boy. Make him come, sweetheart."

A constant stream of broken _'ah, ah, ah'_ s are punching out of Steve's chest, and god, Bucky's missed this. The sound of Steve's orgasm building quickly, the feel of him shaking apart, trying to hold back his pleasure for as long as he can before finally surrendering and chasing it over the edge. But Bucky doesn't want Steve to hold back, not tonight; tonight, he wants it quick and dirty, wants bliss to tear through his beautiful boy, and burn away every lingering memory of pain still trapped in his body.

Bucky presses in a little deeper, giving Steve's greedy hole what it craves after so long. Steve keens. The sensation of Tony's wet mouth and Bucky's dry fingers is obviously too much, because Steve's body tightens and convulses, his knot spasming as he floods Tony's mouth.

"Yeah, just like that, baby, show Tony how good you taste."

Tony pulls off with a choked sound, come coating his lips and dripping from his chin. Steve's hips thrust up into empty air as his orgasm tears through him. Bucky continues to fuck into the quivering rim with one hand, and brings his other up to grip Steve's jerking cock, milking it as Steve continues to spit his milky release over the three of them.

"Jesus, Steve, look at you, still coming. No wonder you filled Tony's belly. Trying to breed him with all this spunk, weren't you? Wanted to put pups in him, huh?"

Steve cries out, his hips fucking up into Bucky's fist so quickly he's a blur of flushed skin and streams of white until finally, he collapses back down onto the bed, panting harshly.

"Holy Fuck." Tony trails his fingers through the mess of white pooling on Steve's sweaty skin. "That was… that was… _Holy fuck._ "

"Mhmm," Steve agrees without opening his eyes. 

"If I'm dead and this is heaven or hell, I would just like to state for the record; I'm fine with it. No complaints. Ten out of ten would recommend," Tony says, sounding awed. "And," he adds smugly, "I'm glad I'm not the only one that goes off like a rocket with the proper motivation."

Steve's hand hops on the bed behind his head, finding a pillow and flinging it in Tony's direction.

"Yeah, blowing his first load within five minutes, now that's the Stevie I know and love." The teasing words are out of Bucky's mouth before he can stop them, and Steve pulls in a sharp breath as his eyes fly open.

" _Still?_ " The word is small, delicate, threatening to break under the weight of the hope it carries.

Bucky leans down, not thinking, just feeling, and captures Steve's mouth. It's warm and soft and demanding and still the sweetest thing he's ever known. He pours a past of regret and apologies into the kiss and writes a thousand promises for the future into the velvet depths of Steve's mouth. 

It's Steve who breaks the kiss, breathless and panting, and Bucky runs a thumb over the spit-slick lower lip. " _Always."_

"Yeah, I'm never going to get tired of seeing _that_ ," Tony rasps before clearing his throat and squirming on the bed. "But I think if you're going to do that again, I might need a towel."

"Oh, no, Tony, I have plans for you," Bucky murmurs, shifting quickly and lifting Tony into his arms. Tony's shock barely has time to settle over his face before Bucky has him naked and pressed chest to chest, holding him up with strong hands clamped around his waist. Tony wraps his legs around Bucky's hips, digging eager feet into his ass. Bucky smiles at Tony's pout when he resists, eyes dipping down to the proud cock jutting out, wet and needy, before leaning in to nip gently on Tony's protruding lower lip. "We're going to put your wetness to good use, sweetheart." In a blink, Bucky unlocks Tony's legs, spins him around, and lowers him onto Steve's still half-hard cock.

 _"Ahh!"_ Tony rocks forward, planting his hands on Steve's chest. "Oh. _Oh,_ " he gasps. "Okay, maybe this slick thing has its advantages," he grinds out between clenched teeth. "Fuck, you feel amazing."

Steve growls, deep and low in the back of his throat as his hands go to Tony's hips. "No, baby, _you_ feel amazing."

Bucky grins as he moves off the bed. He grabs Steve's legs and spins him, pulling him flush to the edge.

"Buck? What's—" The question breaks into a scream as Bucky lifts Steve's hips off the bed, taking both his and Tony's weight easily, and thrusts into Steve's tight hole, with only the precome slicking his cock to ease the joining. It's the way Steve had always begged Bucky to take him—wanting it rough, wanting it to _hurt_ —the way Bucky could never give it when Steve was _human._ But now, the pain would fade quickly enough, and any damage would be healed. ...an unexpected silver lining.

"That okay, baby?" Bucky asks, just in case he's misjudged. But Steve just nods his head on the bed, tears leaking down his cheeks.

"Fuck, yes. Perfect. Never thought I'd feel you inside me again."

"I'm gonna fuck you while you fuck Tony, make you come again and again until you're empty."

Tony moans, leaning back against Bucky's chest. "Yeah? You going to milk him into me and fill my belly again?" 

Bucky chuckles at Steve's high whine. "Listen to that, Tony. Seems our boy likes that idea. Or maybe it's the thought of filling you in _another_ way. Is that it, Stevie?" Steve clenches down around Bucky's cock, hips trying to writhe in Bucky's firm hold. "Steve wants to breed you, sweetheart. What d'you say? Want your belly big and round, full of Steve's pups?"

" _Jesus,_ Buck," Steve chokes out. "Stop talking and fuck me already, _both of you."_

Tony laughs and wiggles his hips just enough to tease, and Bucky feels a swell of pride. 

"You mean _our_ pups," Tony murmurs, twisting his head to the side, snaking an arm around Bucky's neck and pulling him close.

Bucky's lips curve up against Tony's before claiming them. Soft and sweet gives way to rough and needy, and Bucky swallows down the wanton moans spilling into his mouth, exploring the lush cavern of Tony's and finding all the sweet spots that coax out more. 

Bucky tightens his grip on Steve's hips, staking his claim with fingertip bruises. They'll be gone before they've collapsed together in an exhausted tangle of sweat-slicked limbs, but it doesn't matter. It's a claim all the same. _His._ Steve is _his_. Tony is _his_. And he is _theirs_. 

It is everything he needed and thought he could never have. Nirvana wrapped around him, under his hands and pressing against his chest. It's the closest to heaven he's ever been, closer than he deserves to be, but he isn't going to question it or deny himself. 

Not tonight.

When the full moon rises tomorrow, best-laid plans may fail. He knows protecting Steve and Tony may cost him his life, and it's a price he's prepared to pay to save theirs. Tomorrow night may be his last, but tonight… tonight he's going to love and allow himself to be loved. 

Tonight, he's going to live. 


	20. Chapter 20

“Can’t sleep?”

Tony startles at Nat’s quiet voice behind him. He twists in the doorway, away from the vision of Steve and Bucky curled up together in bed, rubbing his bleary eyes before meeting her gaze. “Brain won’t shut down.”

“I’m surprised you’re not comatose after the workout you three had in there,” Nat murmurs with a smirk.

Jesus, had they really been that loud? Tony can feel his cheeks heating, but he can’t unstick his lips to push out a flippant remark or stammered apology.

Thankfully, Nat seems to notice his abject mortification, and when he doesn’t answer, she nudges him with an elbow. “I’m about to do a perimeter check, wanna join me?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. It won’t get you in trouble with Steve, will it? I got the impression he wanted me to stay put.”

Nat waves her hand dismissively. “His bark is worse than his bite. Besides, you’ll be safe with me. I won’t let you be wolfnapped.”

Tony flashes her a tired grin before turning back to the door. His gaze lingers on the two forms on the bed, slotted together like puzzle pieces created for each other. He burns the image into his memory, wanting to remember this moment, this image—moonlight streaming into the room through open curtains, falling in a soft sheet across sculpted bodies and beautiful faces softened in sleep. It makes his chest ache to know this is his, _they_ are his.

Bucky had made good on his promise, emptying Steve into him again and again, and sending Tony tumbling off the cliff of pleasure right along with him, over and over, until all he could do was lay on Steve’s chest, wrecked and whimpering, holding on to keep from shattering apart.

After, he had been wrapped up in the two of them, bracketed by love so intense it was almost a physical weight settling over his body. Their twined hands rested on his hip as two sets of lips, warm and cool, pressed kisses to his skin and whispered soft praises into his ear as he’d floated back down to reality. A reality so superior to even his wildest fantasies, it had taken him a few minutes to realize that he wasn’t dreaming.

But though he’d been spent and exhausted, sleep remained elusive, hiding in the shadows, and every time he reached for it, he came away with anxiety and horrible what-ifs about tomorrow instead. Finally, he’d climbed from the tangle of limbs to clean himself up, waving away offers of help, knowing where that help would lead, and not sure his body could take more ecstasy without imploding. By the time he’d emerged from the bathroom, both men had already surrendered to sleep’s embrace. Tony really had to take an Advanced Supernaturals class; he didn’t know vampires _could_ sleep. But after feeding him for the third time, Steve had convinced Bucky to ‘switch off’ by saying he’d need every advantage for the coming fight.

The fight for _him_.

Tony’s gut twists uncomfortably as he pulls the door shut carefully.

He follows Nat down the stairs before falling into step beside her. The storm has passed, and with no new snowfall to hide it, the mess of desperate tracks leading from the fence-line to the guesthouse are still there, flanked by the now-frozen trail of blood.

Tony wrenches his gaze from Steve’s life spilled across the snow to the clouds hiding the stars from view. They’re dark and swollen, hanging heavy and low in the sky, like they too are holding their breath, waiting for the coming fight. Maybe once it’s over, the skies will open, throw a blanket of white over the field of red, covering the bodies of the lost. Will he be among them? Will Steve? Bucky? A shiver races down his spine, and Tony wraps his arms around himself.

“Cold?” Nat asks, leading him around the back of the guesthouse, her eyes pausing in their scanning to settle on him.

Tony shakes his head. He’s not cold, if anything, he feels a little too warm. The lycan in his blood seems to be taking hold, growing stronger with every hour that brings them closer to the full moon rising. Closer to...

“I’m sorry,” Tony says softly. “For what’s coming. For bringing you a fight that’s not yours.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Tony. You’re family now and family looks after each other. You didn’t ask for this, it’s not your fault. If anything, we should be apologizing to you; if it weren’t for Rumlow attacking you that day, you might not have to be dealing with all of this shit now.”

Tony hums thoughtfully as he keeps pace beside Nat. And he is, he notices with a jolt, despite his exhausted body he’s keeping pace easily. He remembers how out of breath he’d been walking home with Bucky not so long ago—the ache of his muscles and how his chest had tightened painfully. But now, his body moves quickly, breaking through the knee-deep snow without effort or strain. He is definitely changing; he can’t deny it anymore. All his senses seem to be sharpening, too; he can make out the bark on the trees at the edge of the forest, and the small green needles clinging to the branches. He can even smell the musky, heady scent of Steve from out here.

“It’s not all bad,” Tony says, pulling in a deep breath, lifting his face to the sky in time to see the clouds shift enough for the moon to peek into view. He doesn’t need to see all of it to know it’s almost full, hanging like a noose above his head, a glowing, inescapable reminder of what’s coming. Tony lowers his eyes back to Nat and searches for some thread of conversation not tied to the foreboding in his gut. “How long have you known Steve?”

“Almost two years. Pretty much right after he took up out here.”

“I’m glad he found you. I can tell you mean a lot to him.”

“I found _him_ , actually. We all did. That’s just the way things work. We can sense an alpha nearby, and our instincts are to seek him out.” Nat’s gaze is heavy and appraising, and Tony resists the urge to flinch away and stare down at his feet. She rewards his courage with a small but genuine smile. “I’m glad that’s not how it was for you two. You came together by choice, not compulsion. _I’m_ glad he has _you_. And Blood Boy,” Nat adds grudgingly. “I’ve never seen him this happy. You’re a good look on him.”

“If...if something happens tomor—uh, tonight, to me, I mean, you’ll look after him, won’t you? Him and Bucky. I need—”

Nat stops, turns to face him, and plants her hands on his shoulders. “Nothing is going to happen to you, Tony. Not you, your alpha, or even the sexy mosquito. We’re all going to be fine. We’re stronger than they are, and we’re a hell of a lot smarter. We’ve got this.”

The conviction of Nat’s words is blazing in her eyes. She believes it, Tony realizes. She actually believes they have a chance of getting through this without casualties. Desperate hope rises quickly inside him, clutching at her words, but they're empty, false. No amount of reassuring words can drown out that _knowing_ in the back of his mind that it’s not going to be okay. People are going to get hurt, people are going to _die_ because of _him_.

“Do you want me to walk you back to Steve’s?”

Tony startles again, blinking out of his dread to see they’ve arrived at the front of the main house. Wheels start turning in his head as he shakes it. “Uh, is there somewhere I could maybe work on a few things? Tinker with a project or two? If it won’t disturb you or the twins, that is.”

Nat quirks an eyebrow. “The kitchen table is pretty large, and the bedrooms are at the other end of the house, so you can make as much noise as you like. Will that work?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Steve won’t—”

“You need to stop worrying about upsetting Steve, Tony,” Nat laughs. “You could set the house on fire, and he’d still be throwing puppy dog eyes in your direction. Probably ask if you want to roast marshmallows. As long as you’re here, _safe_ , he’s going to be happy.”

Tony remains silent as he follows Nat up the stairs and into the house. He flops down onto a chair, the same chair he’d sat in that first day here. God, it feels like a lifetime ago, but it’s only days. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up. “Is it okay if I ask a friend to bring me a few things?”

“As long as they don’t mind being summoned at three in the morning, go for it. Steve _will_ have my head if they come out here and murder you for waking them up at this hour.”

“Oh, no, Barton loves me too much to kill me. Or, maybe he knows doing so will make him unemployed. Either or, the end result is the same: no dead me.”

“Barton?” Nat’s lips twitch. “Your friendly neighborhood Deputy Barton?”

Tony’s eyebrows dart up. “You’ve met Clint?”

“Not in the flesh. Maybe ask him to bring your station’s first aid kit with him for tomorrow. Just in case.” At Tony’s nod, Nat continues. “I’m going to do another round. You good?”

“Yup. I’ll be here.” Tony waits until Nat has disappeared from the house again before he presses the speed dial for Clint. The uncertainty of tomorrow has been eating at him all day. He doesn’t even know if he’s going to shift, but he doesn’t intend to fade into the background like a wallflower and have everyone fight for him while he waits, wonders, and twiddles his thumbs.

“Tony? What’s wrong?” Clint’s groggy voice makes Tony frown apologetically before he realizes his friend can’t see his face.

“I need a favor.”

. . .

Tony opens the door before Clint reaches the top step. “Just put it on the table.”

Clint grunts as he peers sideways around the boxes, piled three-high and overflowing in his arms, sighting the table and shuffling toward it. He bends at the knees and lowers the bottommost box onto the wooden surface with another grunt. “Shit, that stuff is heavier than it looks. You can come and help me grab the rest from the truck.”

“I’ve got it.”

Clint swivels on the spot at Nat’s voice. His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open, staring at the redhead like Christmas has come early... or like he’s about to.

Nat holds out her hand. “Keys.”

Clint’s jaw works mutely, and Tony elbows him hard in the ribs.

“Ow, fuck. I, uh, no, it’s not locked, but they’re heavy, it’s okay, I—” Clint breaks off, staring at the now-empty doorway. “Oh my god, Tony. Who is that? Why have you been holding out on me?”

“Ah, that’s Nat. She’s… a friend, and trust me, she’s not your type.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? She couldn’t be more my type if I had her custom-built online.”

Tony separates the boxes, mentally cataloging the supplies Clint had brought from his garage. “Thanks for this, Clint.”

“Yeah, it’s all good,” Clint says, distracted, eyes still locked on the doorway. “Why do you need all this stuff at three in the morning anyway?”

“Oh, you know,” Tony shrugs. “Late night project. Can’t sleep. And technically it’s four now. Uh, sorry about that, by the way.”

“Hey, whoa, let me help you with—” Clint starts, and Tony turns to see Nat striding toward the table, carrying four more stacked boxes towering over her head, two rifles tucked under her armpit, and a large retriever by her side.

“I’ve got it,” Nat says, depositing the boxes on the table, then the guns. “This is all there is.” She raises her hands and secures them around the top container and lifts it down. It’s filled with a jumble of medical supplies from the clinic. “Perfect. This might come in handy,” she winks at Tony before taking the box into the attached, open-plan sitting room with the dog hot on her heels and Clint not far behind.

“He’s taken a shine to you,” Clint declares. “You must be something special; he usually takes a while to warm up to new friends.”

Tony unstacks the new boxes and starts sortiing the contents with a smile. He almost feels a little sorry for his best friend, Clint is a terrible flirt, and Natasha is way out of his league… Tony chuckles to himself as he realizes he’d had not dissimilar thoughts about himself and Steve not so long ago.

Nat hums non-committally as she re-enters the kitchen. “Is that what we are? New friends?”

“It’s a start, but I won’t lie and say I’m not hoping for an upgrade.”

“Name?”

“Clint. Barton. Clint Barton.”

“The dog.”

“Oh.”

Tony looks up at the utterly dejected tone and shoots Clint his best _‘tough luck, pal’_ look.

Clint sighs. “Lucky.”

Nat bends to run a hand over Lucky’s head and scratch behind his ears, straightening again as the canine rears up on his back legs and plants his large front paws on her chest.

“ _No!_ Lucky, down, boy!” Clint stage-whispers the command, but Lucky ignores it, straining forward to lick Nat’s face. “C’mon, man, you’re making us look bad.”

Nat growls low in her throat, and Lucky drops to the ground, sinks to his belly, and whines as he lays his head on his paws.

“I—shit, wow. How did you do that? He never listens to me.”

Nat catches Tony’s eye and gives him a knowing look before one corner of her lips pull up, and she shifts her gaze back to Clint. “I’m very in touch with my animalistic side. Dogs tend to respond well to it.”

“Not just dogs,” Clint mutters under his breath, shifting discreetly.

Deciding the very least he owes Clint is saving him from himself, Tony clears his throat. “Is this everything from the station? All the ammo we had?”

Clint blinks as if just remembering why he’s here in the first place, then nods. “Yeah. Why do you need all that anyway? You didn’t say. Is there some kind of alien invasion advisory I’m not privy to or something? Ooh, or zombie outbreak? I have a list of people I’ve been waiting to take out in the name of mercy,” he drawls out on a long yawn.

“I, uh…” Tony freezes. In all his planning, he hadn’t realized he’d have to explain this to Clint. Although, no, he had expected his best friend to come, deliver the boxes, grumble at him, maybe ask for a raise or a month off and head back home. Tony hadn’t factored Nat or Clint’s much moaned about dry streak into his plans. “You’re tired.” Tony seizes the opportunity to deflect. He doesn’t want to lie to Clint if he can help it. “You should probably head home amd get some more sleep.”

“Nah, I could hardly keep my eyes open on the drive out here. I might crash for a few hours before I head back if you’ve got a spare couch I can steal?”

“Tony’s going to be making a lot of noise by the looks of it.” Nat’s soft laughter draws Tony’s focus, and her lips curve up. “ _Again._ So it might be best if you bunk in a spare room.”

“Oh, I don’t want to be any trouble…”

“It’s no trouble. We’ve recently found ourselves with a lot of spares.” Nat spins on the spot gracefully before leading the way down the hallway branching off the sitting room, their fading banter punctuated by the sharp clicking of Lucky’s nails on the wooden floor as he trots after them.

Now alone, Tony focuses on the task at hand, separating the ammunition on the table, placing the shotgun shells in their own box. If he can’t fight with teeth and claws, he’ll do it with gunpowder. He places the smaller caliber bullets to strip off to the side and takes stock of the tools and pieces he’s laid out on the table.

There’s enough to make four lethal traps or eight designed to maim. After a moment of hesitation, he divvies up the bullets into four piles. He isn’t sure how many shifters Rumlow and Obie have in their twisted little blended-family pack, but he can’t afford to show weakness, he has to go for the throat… or wherever the soft spot on a wolf is.

 _Fuck._ He doesn’t even know their weaknesses— _his_ weaknesses.

He sinks back down into his chair, staring at the mess spread out before him. He’s so woefully unprepared it would be funny if it weren’t absolutely terrifying. He has no idea what’s going to happen, and how can he plan for the unknown? The kitchen light glints mockingly off the silver casings, and he slumps in his chair, suddenly bone-weary and beyond exhausted. He might be kidding himself, this may all blow up in his face, literally, but he has to at least _try_. If it works, there will be four fewer wolves to deal with, four fewer wolves to hurt Bucky or Steve or Nat or the twins. And if it doesn’t, then at least it will have given him something to do with his hands besides dropping his face into them and despairing… or crying.

The horrors of yesterday are seared into the back of his eyelids, and every time he closes them, he sees it again and again—Steve, lying broken in the snow, his shredded body hemorrhaging blood, and Bucky, his pale and perfect skin blackened and broken, so weak he needed to be carried inside. They’d almost died... _because of him_.

He can’t banish the thought from his mind. The guilt tightens his chest, clawing at his throat, the familiar heat of panic pounding through his veins. It had been his fault, all of it, and whatever comes next will be on him, too. He can’t lose them, not when he’s just found them. He’s always let the past stop him from thinking about a future with anyone... until now. And now that he’s finally let it go, it has hunted him down and is threatening to rip his future from his hands... from his heart.

Tony shakes his head. He can’t think like that now, not now. It takes several minutes of slow, steady breaths pulled in through his nose to smother the anxiety and slow his racing heart. He sets his shoulders and picks up the first bullet in one hand and his pliers in the other. He can’t afford to fall apart now, can’t be the weak link in the chain. No, he has work to do.  
  


. . .

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s time to get up.”

 _“No!”_ Tony’s scream rips from his throat as his nightmare chases him into consciousness. He jerks upright in his chair, trying to push to his feet before he’s even blinked the world into focus, but a strong hand on his shoulder keeps him in place. He swallows dryly around the wild beating in his throat, twisting to see Bucky and Steve standing either side of him. _Shit._ He’d fallen asleep. “What time is it?”

“There’s a little over an hour until the sun sets.”

 _”An hour?_ Fuck! I need—we need—” Panic flares back to life inside him, and Tony struggles against the hold on his shoulder, but Bucky just drapes himself over Tony’s back, arms crisscrossing over Tony’s rapidly-rising chest, pulling him into a tight, cool embrace.

“You need to calm down, wake up, and have some breakfast. Lunch? Food. You need to eat.”

“No! I don’t need—that doesn’t matter. We need to plan, need to get ready—”

A warm hand runs through Tony’s hair and Steve’s hot breath ghosts over his ear. “Hey, it’s okay, calm down. _Take a deep breath for me, baby.”_

The hand squeezes gently at Tony’s nape as the Command rolls through his body. It feels like sinking into a warm bath, and his body relaxes, sagging back into Bucky’s embrace as he fills his lungs, long and slow.

Steve presses a kiss to his temple. “That’s it. Good boy.”

The praise is an echo of last night, and Tony can’t stop the small whimper that escapes his lips. He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until Clint clearing this throat awkwardly makes them fly back open.

Clint raises an eyebrow before his eyes dart pointedly to Steve and then Bucky before returning to Tony. “Looks like you’ve been very busy.”

“You have no idea,” Nat murmurs.

Ignoring the heat biting at his cheeks, Tony drops his gaze to the four fully completed devices on the table. At least he’d finished them before he’d passed out. Still, he could have done so many more productive things instead of dreaming up yet more ways the looming fight could go wrong. “Why did you let me sleep so long?” He tries not to sound petulant, but he fails.

“You needed it, sweetheart. You were running on fumes after yesterday—”

“And last night,” Nat chimes in from the kitchen, as she fills two cups from the coffee pot.

“—and you’re no good to anyone in that condition, least of all yourself,” Bucky continues as if Nat hadn’t spoken.

“But we need to make a plan.” The anxious fluttering in Tony’s chest is back.

“A plan for what?” Clint takes the cup of coffee from Nat with an awed look. “Thanks.”

Nat just nods to him before reaching across and placing the second cup in front of Tony. “We’re out of sugar and milk and cream and, well, pretty much everything, so today you’re going to have black and love it.”

Tony gives her a small, grateful smile before wrapping his hands around the cup, watching Clint drink his. _Clint. Oh, fuck._ “Uh, shouldn’t you be getting back? Have you been hanging out here all day?”

Clint doesn’t answer, too busy chugging his coffee as if it’ll magically disappear if he leaves it to cool, but after a moment, he places the empty cup on the table and shrugs. “I just woke up ten minutes before you did. Guess I was more exhausted than I realized. Your job is harder than it looks. And, speaking of, what the hell are you doing out here, anyway? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

“Oh. Well, we’ re—they’re having a bit of a wolf problem. I thought I’d make some… deterrents.”

“Mhm,” Clint hums thoughtfully, eyeing the traps. “Those deterrents look awfully fatal, which is a very unlike you thing to make.”

“There was an attack yesterday. We need to make sure the wolves responsible don’t hurt anyone else,” Nat offers when Tony doesn’t answer.

“Well, I’m afraid that horse has already bolted,” Clint says on a sigh.

Tony frowns. “What horse? What are you talking about?”

“I think we might have a couple of rogue wolves on our hands. That’s why I’m so worn out—I was run off my feet all day yesterday with people reporting attacks, fifteen at last count. Luckily they’re all pretty superficial, bites and scratches, nothing that needs more than—”

 _Fifteen?_ The wolf-warm blood in Tony’s veins turns to ice. _No, no, no, no._ “Attacks? Jesus, Clint, why didn’t you call me?”

“Bucky said you were sick,” Clint bristles. “Which, I’d like to point out that wanting to spend all day in bed is not the same as having to. But, you’re lucky it was nothing I couldn’t handle. Bruce taught me how to stitch—”

“You weren’t bitten, were you?”

Clint shakes his head. “No, but so many others were. I called Bruce. He’s going to bring back more supplies with him; we only had enough antibiotics and stuff for the first three bites. He’ll be back tomorrow, and I’ve got a list of names to follow up with. Hopefully, the fact that no one has called since I've been out here means the worst is over.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and thumbs the lock screen away.

“No,” Tony breathes shakily. “The worst is yet to come.” He looks up at Steve. “I have to tell him. He’ll have to stay.” At Steve’s nod, Tony turns back to Clint. “Listen, you can’t go back to town, it’s too dangerous now.”

“What are you talking about?” Clint stares down at his phone with a scowl. “Damn it. There’s no service.” He stands and shoves the phone back into his pocket. “I _have_ to go back, there could be another dozen attacks and people could be trying to reach—”

 _”No!_ Clint... Look, I haven’t been entirely honest with you. I _was_ sick. The wolves that attacked me weren’t normal wolves, and they’re the same ones attacking everyone in town. They’re— _oh, god.”_ Tony twists back to Steve. “He’s trying to make himself an army. Will that work? Will the newly bitten turn tonight? Can it happen that quickly?”

Steve sighs heavily. “I don’t know. It’s possible, but they’ll be weak. Stane could be using them as a diversion, for you as Sherriff or for their numbers tonight. Or he could be playing the long game, padding out his ranks in anticipation that we actually win tonight, preparing for a second wave attack. There are just too many variables to know for sure.”

“Stane? Your Stane?” Clint asks, confusion etched into his face. “Tony, what’s going on?”

“Look, I know this is going to sound… but, just, I need you to believe me, okay? It’s just—the wolves, they’re Lycans, shape-shifters. Just like, well, Steve and Nat and everyone here except Bucky are, too. And everyone attacked is going to turn. I thought I was going to, but it turns out I always have been a shifter, I just didn’t know it. It’s, uh, a long story and I can’t—but, Obie hid it from me, and now he’s here he’s coming tonight to take me and kill anyone who stands in his way,” Tony pushes the last of the words out in a rush, emptying his lungs completely before refilling them, watching Clint process the information.

“Okay.”

Tony gapes at his best friend. “ _Okay?_ That’s it? I have a whole speech completely prepared, along with super-human displays to convince you when you rebuke me.”

“I believe you. I knew there was something off about you, your eyes are… and I mean, Nat is too much goddess to be mere mortal, and Steve…” Clint shrugs. “I mean, look at him. He can’t be human. He has muscles that we just don’t have, of which you have a much more intimate knowledge of, I’m sure.”

“I...uh…” Tony falters. Clint’s easy acceptance has knocked him off balance.

“And what are you?” Clint turns to Bucky. “I’m assuming if you’re rounding out the triangle, you’ve got to be something special, too.”

“Oh, he is,” Steve murmurs.

Bucky snorts affectionately, and one of the arms lifts from Tony’s chest to presumably drape around Steve. “Vampire,” he offers quietly.

“I know it sounds—” Tony starts, but stops when Clint holds up a hand.

“No, it explains everything perfectly—how he got to my truck so quickly, why he makes me want to pee my pants every time he gets within biting distance, and the whole turning extra-crispy in sunlight deal.” Clint nods as if the matter is settled. “Right, so, what’s the plan? How do we stop the bastard from taking Tony?”

“Oh, no. Hold up. You’re staying, but you’re not getting involved,” Tony says firmly.

“You are _both_ staying inside. You keep the shotguns, and if anything comes through that door before sunrise, you kill it,” Bucky says grimly.

“That’s not—no-what if I, uh… you know,” Tony tapers off, unable to say the words in front of Clint.

“If you what?”

“When the sun sets, we’re going to shift,” Steve states simply.

“Into wolves? Like, real wolves? Fur? Four legs? The whole shebang?” It’s Clint’s turn to gape. At Steve’s nod, Clint gives a low whistle. “Wow, cool. And you, Tony, you’re going to fluff out, too?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s my first, I mean… obviously I haven’t done it before…”

“If you do, I still want you to stay in the house,” Steve says, a hard edge to his tone.

“What? Steve! No, I can’t just hide in the house and have you fight for me!”

“If we know you’re safe, it will be easier for us, Tony. If we have to worry about you getting hurt, or Stane taking you…” Bucky squeezes Tony’s arm. “Steve can make you stay inside, but we’d rather you did it by choice.”

Frustration and fear rage inside him, screaming like white noise in his head, and his dream comes roaring back in front of his open eyes—standing alone in front of the house in a sea of blood, broken bodies littering the ground around him—Steve, Bucky, Nat, the twins, and Clint. Their cold, lifeless eyes staring at him as Obie drags him away. The weight of knowing they’ve sacrificed their lives for nothing presses down onto him, constricting his lungs in his chest painfully until he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t…

“Tony? Hey, sweetness, it’s okay.” Steve crouches down beside him and cups his face. Large thumbs stroke his cheeks, and Tony realizes, dazedly, that they’re wet.

“Sorry,” Tony sniffs, blinking rapidly to try and stop the flow of tears. “I just… I can’t lose you. _Any of you_.”

Steve presses his lips to Tony’s, soft and sweet. “I love you,” he says when he pulls back, his lips hitching to the side. “I think I’ve loved you from the moment you turned up on my doorstep looking like Red Riding Hood, all wide-eyes, smelling like honey and scotch and calling me a lumberjack.” Steve chuckles. “I am not about to give that up—give _you_ up—without a fight. It just so happens I can fight a little better when I’m not worried about you.”

Tony takes a deep breath before blowing it out, realization crystalizing sharp and vivid in his mind. “I know. I understand what has to happen. And I love you, too.” He places a hand on Steve's chest, then squeezes Bucky’s hand on his arm with the other. “And you. I love you, too.” He tilts his head back to stare up at Bucky. “Whatever happens, I need you both to know that.”

Cool lips press down on Tony’s forehead. “And you know we will do everything in our power to keep you safe and come back to you.”

Swallowing thickly, Tony nods. “I made these—” he gestures to the explosive boobytraps “—I need you to set them up in the woods around the house. There are trip-wires to attach to the trees, here and here. Even if they don’t take anyone out, it’ll be a signal that they’re here, and which direction they’re coming from.”

Steve beams at him. “I’m glad your genius is on our side.”

“I can set them up,” Natasha offers.

“ _No._ Steve and Bucky can do it while you help Clint find something to wear with more protection. Maybe a leather jacket or… something better than his sweats. If they do breach the house, it might come in handy. And if you could find the twins and get them to load up the shotguns and move the furniture to block the back door and windows, limit their points of entry, that’d be great. I’m going to, uh, scent-mark the front of the house, hopefully draw Obie’s attention and get him where we want him, or at the very least, distract him.”

Nat turns to Steve and quirks an eyebrow.

“You heard the man,” Steve says firmly, taking two traps from the table. “We have less than ten minutes before the shift. Everyone do your tasks Tony has assigned you and then meet back here. As long as we stay calm and stick together, everything will be okay.” He looks around at all the faces in the room before lingering on Tony, giving him a reassuring smile. “Alright, let’s move.”

A hollow victory spreads through Tony as he watches the pairs split off, waiting until he’s alone before grabbing the pen and pad of paper on the table. He scribbles a few words with a shaky hand before he stands, walks to the back door, and slips through.

He takes the steps two at a time, then starts running toward the tree-line. He stumbles but catches himself, still not used to the new power of his body. His legs stretch out, his pace increasing until he’s whipping through the trees in a blur, moving so quickly he feels like he’s flying. The yearning in his chest is tugging him in the opposite direction, back to the house, to Steve and Bucky, but he ignores it.

Obie had said they only wanted _him_ , that no one else had to get hurt. Tony may be putting all his eggs in one very unreliable, cruel basket, but it’s the only option he has. Whatever torture Obie has planned for him, he can survive it as long as he knows Bucky and Steve are safe.

The bloody vision from his nightmare drives him forward. He can’t take the chance it becomes a reality, he can’t allow them to risk their lives for his… he won’t. There will only be one sacrifice tonight, and it will be his.


	21. Chapter 21

Bucky secures the last wire into place then straightens, smiling down at the trap. It’s small and unassuming, but he has a feeling it’ll pack a hell of a punch. Not unlike its creator.

The thought of Tony, the memory of pain twisting his face when told to keep to the house, tugs Bucky’s lips back down. Tony’s thoughts were easy to read—scrawled across his skin in splashes of red—but he’d been wrong. It isn’t because they think he’ll be useless in the fight, but because he’s too valuable to risk. You don’t take the enemy’s most prized possession onto the field of battle.

And hell, if Bucky had his way, Steve would be planted right alongside Tony in the damn house. Not surprisingly, however, Steve hadn’t given _that_ suggestion a second of consideration. Steve had never been a shrinking violet, not even when his body was no match for the fight within and struggled to contain it. But now, his strength has finally caught up with his spirit, and Bucky knows the spark of fury in Steve’s eye and his whole _’whatever it takes’_ attitude may even tip the scales in their favor.

A flash of movement from his peripheral vision pulls his focus—Steve emerging from the forest a few hundred yards ahead, hair mussed and hands now empty. He’s almost hidden in the dying light, but Bucky’s sharp gaze follows him easily, picking out the tense movements that betray his earlier confidence. Steve’s trying to be strong, putting on a brave face for Tony, his pack, for _him_ , carrying the world’s weight on those broad shoulders. Bucky can almost hear the noise from inside Steve’s head, a cacophony of hastily-made plans, backup plans, and horrible what-ifs spiraling dangerously. They’re the same thoughts hemorrhaging anxiety inside his own mind.

In a blink, Bucky is beside Steve, nudging him with an elbow, startling him out of his dark thoughts as they make their way back to the house. “You get them secured okay?”

Steve nudges Bucky back. “They didn’t go bang when I was setting them up, so I guess.”

Bucky chuckles and plucks a broken twig out of Steve’s hair. “I never understood how someone with such delicate hands could be all thumbs.”

“They’re not so delicate anymore.” Steve’s lips curve up tightly as he takes Bucky’s hand in his, twining their fingers together. His gaze lands on Bucky’s answering smile, and his own softens around the edges. “I missed seeing you like this.”

Bucky raises a questioning eyebrow as they take the stairs, side by side, before pausing on the landing.

“You were so closed off in the station and at Tony’s house. So… cold. I thought you’d changed, that you’d lost your light.”

The glib retort dies on Bucky’s tongue under the weight of Steve’s earnest gaze. Now may not be the best time to have a heart to heart, but then again, now may be the only time they have. “I did. _You_ were my light, Steve. But having you back and finding Tony… I know I don’t deserve either of you—” he shakes his head as Steve frowns and opens his mouth to argue, “—but I can’t wander around lost in the darkness anymore. I’m going to be selfish and take whatever you’re offering for as long as you’re willing and try my best to be worthy of it.”

“Buck…”

Squeezing the hand in his more tightly, Bucky tugs Steve through the door. “C’mon. There are only minutes until you _fluff up_ , as Barton so eloquently put it, we should check on Tony.”

“That’s a grand plan, but he’s not here,” Nat says, meeting them two steps clear of the doorway. “Sorry, it’s not eavesdropping if you’ve got supernatural hearing, and that was all very sweet, by the way, but Tony’s gone.”

Steve’s whole body draws tight, and Bucky can hear his already fast lycan pulse notch higher still. “What do you mean he’s _gone_?”

“Just what it says on the tin,” Clint interjects, holding out a piece of paper to Bucky. “For a genius, Tony can be very, very stupid.”

Bucky takes the note with his freehand and scans it before passing it to Steve. “We should have tied him to the fucking bed.” There’s a tightening in his throat, and he swallows against it roughly. “Wait here. I’m going after him.”

“No—”

“You are going to shift any minute. You know it has to be this way. I trusted you yesterday, trust me now. Stick to the plan. I’ll find him and bring him back,” Bucky swears. “Whether he wants to come or not,” he adds darkly.

“Okay. Find him and then come back home, _both_ of you. And Buck, I need you to know—”

“No. We’re not doing that. No goodbyes or final words, Stevie. If you have something to tell me, you do it after, alright?”

The warm hand clasping his tightens before releasing as Steve nods. _“After.”_

Tony’s scent lingers in the air, and Bucky follows it through the back door to find the single set of footprints leading into the forest. Ignoring the steps, he vaults over the railing and lands softly in the snow, cursing under his breath. Tony had sent them off in different directions on purpose, had planned this down to the last. He’s a genius, alright, and a fucking pain in the ass.

Racing toward the trees, Bucky eclipses Tony’s footprints with his own. He finds the omega scent easily, the unmistakable honeyed aroma setting his path and guiding him closer, but when the last rays of light disappear from the sky, his draw changes. The soft scent turns sharp, and if Bucky’s heart was capable of it, he’s sure it would be pounding out of his chest, the roar of it beating in his ears and drowning out Tony’s screams now filling the forest.

There’s no sense of time as Bucky runs, smashing through thick trunks and heavy, snow-laden branches. The wooden fingers grab for him, scraping his skin and tearing his clothes as if the universe itself is trying to stop him from getting to Tony. The world darkens around him, his focus shrinking to a pinprick, to the wailing cries, chasing them and praying to whatever deity that will listen that he’s not too late.

Grace has surrendered to fear, and Bucky stumbles over the uneven ground distractedly, eyes searching the blurring forest until finally, he finds Tony curled up in the snow, shrieking and shaking. Bucky drops to his knees beside him, taking stock of the injuries.

Tony hadn’t transformed… at least, not _fully._ Bones had broken and tried to reform, the jagged white shards slicing through half-shifted muscles and protruding from torn clothes and ragged flesh. The patches of dark hair pushing out through his skin are matted with blood.

Bucky slides his hands under the mangled body, scooping Tony into his arms, grimacing at the gut-wrenching wails of agony. “I know, Tony, I’m sorry. I’m going to help you, I promise, but we need to get back to the house. It’s not safe out here.”

As if to emphasize his point, a piercing howl sounds from the darkness.

Not waiting for the telltale glowing eyes to fill the forest, Bucky straightens, wrapping his arms more tightly around Tony before sprinting back the way he’d come. He sharpens his focus on the return trip, darting around rocks and bushes, and ducking under branches, trying to keep from jostling Tony too much, but knowing the pain wracking his body now will be nothing compared to what he’ll feel if the wolves catch them.

And the wolves _are_ coming. He can hear them now, low growls and snapping jaws, paws scratching over the ground as they cover it quickly. They’re being hunted. But while the wolves have the advantage of numbers, Bucky has something they don’t—he has _Tony._

Cutting to the left, Bucky slips around a broken trunk, his feet flying over the ground, taking him to the two towering pines marking the property line. Coiling his muscles tight, he springs from the ground, tucking Tony to his chest more securely as they sail through the air between the trees, high enough to clear the tripwire he’d set in place only minutes before. He lands in the snow ten feet clear, the impact pulling a broken cry from Tony’s throat.

The explosion behind them swallows the lycan’s yelp of pain, and the force knocks Bucky to his knees. Tony wails as Bucky crushes on top of him, shoved forward onto the ground by paws careening into his back. Releasing his hold on Tony, Bucky reaches back to grab for the animal’s legs, but the weight is gone. He rolls away, off Tony, twisting in time to see a massive white wolf ripping the throat out of a smaller, grey one.

It’s the biggest lycan Bucky’s ever seen, and his fangs draw down instinctively as he flips to his feet and crouches over Tony. If Bucky were standing, the wolf would reach his shoulder easily, but in his lowered, defensive position, the shifter towers over him, golden eyes glowing, muzzle dripping red.  
  
Bucky hisses, drawing back, ready to attack when the white wolf drops to his belly, laying its large head over its paws. The submissive gesture makes him hesitate. The wolf’s scent is sharper now, filling his nose and overriding his instincts to attack.

“Steve?”

The wolf lifts from the ground and bounds forward. He brushes his head against Bucky’s shoulder before nuzzling at Tony with a soft whine.

“He’ll be okay. I—” Bucky jerks his head away from Steve, to the sound of barking, to the six shifters emerging from the tree line.

He straightens, warring twin desires to protect Tony and attack the wolves making him hesitate. Steve lifts a large paw and places it on Bucky’s chest as a russet wolf speeds from behind him, launching itself at the newcomers, tackling two into the snow. The other four round on it—her? Nat?—before furious barking from the direction of the house gives way to two more wolves, brown with identical white markings, as they rush to Nat’s side.

Steve’s keen gaze follows their movements, growling when they disappear into the frenzy. He turns back to Bucky with another small whine.

“I know, it’s okay. Go. I’ll help Tony, and then I’ll find you.”

Steve nudges his nose under Bucky’s jaw before turning and racing to join the fight.

Steeling himself against his every impulse screaming at him to help Steve, Bucky gathers Tony into his arms and speeds into the house.

He has one hand under the kitchen table, lifting it, sliding the boxes of Tony’s unused mechanics onto the floor before the loud bang of Clint’s shotgun splits the air.

“Oh, shit! I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were—fuck, what happened to Tony?”

Bucky sets Tony down on the table as carefully as he can, then cleaves a chunk from his own wrist with his teeth. Dark blood rushes from the gaping wound as he holds it over Tony’s. The stream of black falls and mixes with bright red, spilling over skin and pooling on the table as Tony writhes and screams, his fingers clawing at his broken body.

“Something stopped him from turning fully.”

“Something like what?” Clint calls over his shoulder as he rushes back into the sitting room.

“I don’t know. I’m not the resident wolf expert, Barton,” Bucky snaps.

Tony’s screaming pitches higher as he thrashes his head side to side on the hard wood, sweat beading and dripping down his face and neck. His skin ripples as muscles and bones knit back together, the healing just as traumatic to his body as the failed shift.

Clint skids to a stop by the table, arms full of gauze and bandages from the box of supplies he’d brought last night. “I hate to break it to you, but out of the two of us, you _are_ the expert. Is that—why are you doing that?” He wrinkles his nose as Bucky moves his hand back to his mouth, re-opening the healed gash before letting it spill over more of Tony’s lacerations. “That seems very… unsanitary.”

“My blood will heal him.” Bucky frowns. _”Should_ heal him.”

“Should?”

Bucky shakes his head. He knows it’ll heal the broken bones and skin, but the shift isn’t a wound, isn’t something that can be cured by blood, so the half-shift…He’s not sure.

The silence is deafening as Tony’s body goes limp on the table.

“Is he…” Clint swallows roughly. “He’s not…?”

The sound of Tony’s pulse is weak, fluttering too quickly in his chest—lycan not human now. But though faint, it’s there. “No. He just passed out.” Bucky wipes the mess of mixed blood off the large gash on Tony’s thigh to see the bone is no longer jutting from ragged flesh. A single, dark scar is the only testament to the trauma. Each careful wipe over Tony’s skin gives the same results, a dozen new marks for a dozen healed wounds. The dark hair doesn’t recede, though, and Bucky strokes his hand through the soft patch on Tony’s throat.

Looking down at Tony’s unnaturally still form on the table, the hopelessness Bucky has been fighting down rears up inside him. This isn’t how tonight is supposed to go. They had a plan. Tony was supposed to be safe in the house, not dangling himself like bait, or offering himself up as a sacrifice, or whatever the hell he thought he was doing.

Bucky knows the board was set for this game a long time ago. Fate has been biding her time, amassing the pieces: Steve, Tony, Stane, Rumlow, and him. Tonight they’ll all come together and play their part. Tonight will either finally put their ghosts to rest… or their souls.

They win, or they die.

Determination flares inside of Bucky. The game may have been set a long time ago—before he’d saved Tony in the clearing, even before he’d saved him as a child—but the outcome is not. Fate had brought Steve and Tony back to him, and Bucky cannot believe it was just for him to watch them die.

“Tony? Can you open your eyes for me? Wake up, sweetheart.”

Tony groans, his face pinching tight before his eyes open.

Bandages and rolls of gauze spill from Clint’s arms, tumbling to the floor as he sucks in a surprised gasp.

Golden eyes—wolf eyes—dart to Clint as Tony struggles to sit up. “What happened?”  
  
Tony’s body is hot under Bucky’s hands as he helps him to a sitting position on the table. “Why am I still human?”

“I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you are,” Clint croaks. “At least, not all of you.”

Tony surveys his arms, frowning down at the strange mix of skin and fur. He sags in Bucky’s hold. “Well, that’s different. If this is permanent, I’m going to have to upgrade my razor.”

A wan smile flits over Tony’s lips, but the masquerade doesn’t fool Bucky for a second. He can see the shift and healing cost etched into the tight lines around Tony’s mouth and pinching at his eyes—his usual bright spark dulled by pain.

Bucky cards his hand through Tony’s hair, damp with sweat, drawing him close before capturing his lips, coaxing them to yield for him with a sweep of his tongue. Tony groans and opens for him beautifully, wrapping trembling arms around his neck, tangling eager hands into his hair. He uses his tongue to feed Tony his saliva, working his glands to secrete more. Obviously understanding the plan, Tony sucks at Bucky’s tongue hungrily, swallowing down the fluid with soft moans.

“Uh, guys, this really isn’t, uh… I mean, I’m all for completely inappropriate PDAs, but—”

Bucky breaks the kiss, smiling at Tony’s small whimper of protest, and rubs his thumb over his spit-slick lower lip. Tony hops off the table and turns bright eyes on Bucky, evidence the chemicals are already buzzing through his brain, burning the fog of pain away.

Now his immediate concerns have been tended to, the sounds of the fight are thundering in Bucky’s ears as he runs assessing eyes over Tony. “I need to go help Steve. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’ m— _ahh!_ ” Tony gasps, pressing his fingertips to his temple.

“Tony, what’s—”

Tony shakes his head. “Sorry, no, I’m okay. It’s just… it’s nothing. I’m fine, I promise. Go. He needs you.”

Bucky hesitates, cupping Tony’s jaw, running his thumb over his cheek. “If something’s wrong, I need to know. I can’t lose you.”

Tony lifts Bucky’s other hand and brushes his lips over cool knuckles. “You’re not going to lose me. You saved me… _again._ Now go and play white knight for our third little kitten before he becomes mittens.” Bucky blinks blankly at Tony, who shrugs and shoos him away. “Just… nevermind, I’ll explain it later.”

“Yeah, we are going to have a serious conversation about your self-sacrificing tendencies at the same time.” Bucky turns to Clint. “Keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Have you met him?” Clint snorts. “That is not a one-man job. Even you and alpha fuzzball couldn’t manage it.”

“Uh, excuse me. I don’t do anything stupid; I’m a genius.”

“Mhm. That’s what worries me.” Bucky shakes his head. _“Be safe.”_ He wants to tell Tony he loves him, but he can’t. It feels too much like a goodbye, and he can’t face that thought right now. He has to focus on getting through tonight, getting them all through tonight. He sears the image of Tony smiling up at him into his heart, _just in case_ , and then, in a blink, he’s outside.

He smells it before he sees it: blood. There’s so much blood. It’s dulling the shine of moonlight on snow, dripping from muzzles, coating fur, and pooling around the six dead bodies, now in human form, strewn across the yard.

High-pitched yelps of pain punctuate the snarls of the wolves locked in desperate battle as Steve, Nat, and the twins hold their own against double their number. The intruder wolves are smaller than Steve’s pack—and so much smaller than Steve. They’re frenzied and vicious but untrained. They scratch and bite at flanks and legs and tails, lunging and biting at anything within reach. But _his_ pack moves with purpose, efficiently ripping out throats or snapping necks when they can get their jaws around them, and the grey wolves are falling one after the other.

Bucky curses as two wolves peel off from the pack, separating as they near, flying at him from both sides at once. He reaches out to grab the front leg of the one closest to Tony as the other collides with him, knocking him onto his back on the porch.

Teeth sink into his arm, and he hisses, capturing the wolves head in his hands and yanking it up, tearing teeth from flesh even as a new set pierces his thigh. He catches the wolf biting at his arm, his fingers burying into the thick fur of its neck before twisting violently. But the snap of the lycan’s neck is drowned out by the shotgun blast as Tony presses the barrel to the second wolf’s head and pulls the trigger. Red fills Bucky’s vision as blood, bone, and fur rain down on him and the landing.

Both bodies fall to the side, transforming in death, as Bucky tips his head back and stares upside down at Tony. His lips twist down as he huffs out a sigh. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or kick your ass.”

“Kick _their_ ass now—” Tony nods to the two new shifters rushing to the house “—and kiss me later.” He cocks the barrel and aims, sending pellets flying into the pelt of one of the wolves. Clint’s shotgun echoes Tony’s, his aim true, catching the second wolf in the chest. It yelps and stumbles like its kin, rolling before lifting and limping forward.  
  
Bucky grins despite himself and rushes to finish the job.

. .

After the fifth wave of attacks, it becomes clear that they’re being toyed with. Each time they clear one group, another line emerges from the forest.

Broken bodies lie where they fell, the wall of corpses pushing them back toward the house. But as the number of dead rises, so does the injury count: Nat has a nasty wound on her flank and a torn left ear, the twins have an extensive collection of bites and deep scratches between them, and Steve is covered in so much blood it’s impossible to tell how much is his. He’s limping though, favoring his right front leg, but it hasn’t stopped him from slashing open the belly of more than one wolf.

Bucky’s own strength is being tested, his body working hard to fight the shifter venom coursing through his veins, borne from the dozen bites littering his body. He knows the only reason he’s still standing is down to the fact he’s working with a whole fresh store of Steve’s blood.

Steve growls low in his throat, and the twins shift positions, moving from beside Nat to flank Bucky. Steve turns to look at him, golden eyes glowing, and Bucky wishes he could understand what’s going on in Steve’s mind.

An eerie silence falls around them as the moon disappears behind a cloud; darkness swallowing them up in a soft sigh. Even with his sharp vision, if it weren’t for the amber eyes, Bucky would have missed the large black wolf as it stalks from the trees.

Bucky hisses. He knows this wolf, knows its scent. It’s the wolf that tried to kill Tony. The wolf whose kin had tried to kill _him._

_Rumlow._

The clouds above them blow past the moon, and the gentle light fills the yard once more, dancing through the fur of the line of wolves before them. They’re bigger than those that have come before and smarter: hanging back, watching, not rushing forward into the jaws of death.

Rumlow’s head swivels from Bucky to Steve before returning. Black lips pull back, revealing blood-red gums and rows of curved teeth, and Bucky has the distinct impression he’s smiling. But then his head tips back, his muzzle pointing to the moon, and he howls.

As far as signals go, it’s not subtle, but it’s effective—the nine wolves fringing Rumlow spring into motion. Five hurl themselves at Steve and Nat, and four race toward the twins as Rumlow lunges at Bucky.  
  
The world tilts as the heavy weight of fur and bone slam into his chest and sends him tumbling back into the snow. Bucky hisses in pain as smooth peaks pierce cloth and sink deeply into his flesh beneath. Rumlow shakes his head, jaws still clamped around him, and the scent of his own blood floods the air as the teeth cutting into him shift and tear.  
  
Bucky growls and jabs his arm out, a sharp elbow landing heavily on the wolf’s nose. Teeth retract from his body as Rumlow recoils, whining and pawing at his bloody muzzle. Satisfaction spills free inside Bucky—the second time he’s broken the bastard’s nose feels as good as the first.

Bucky jumps to his feet and presses his advantage, rushing forward, his well-aimed kick rewarded with the sound of ribs breaking. Again. But in a full, natural shift, Rumlow is stronger than their last meeting, and he doesn’t turn tail and run.

He rallies.

Rumlow charges Bucky, slipping to the left at the last second and catching his leg with sharp teeth, ripping flesh from bone, and sending Bucky crumpling to the ground.

Bucky flips onto his back, but before he can get on his feet, there’s a crushing weight on him as Rumlow pins him in place, sharp claws carving deep grooves into his chest. Bucky seizes the snapping jaws just as they stretch for his neck, turning his face to the side, shifting away as Rumlow strains forward.

A flurry of movement steals his focus, a flash of frenzied fur—grey, brown, and white-stained-red—in a tumbling pile: snarling, snapping, biting, bleeding.

Bucky can’t see Steve, can’t tell who’s winning and who’s dying. All he can hear are the yelps of pain, bones breaking, hearts beating fast enough to burst, shotguns firing and reloading, and above it all, Tony and Clint shouting.

Bucky turns his face back to the open jaws above him. This is _not_ how it ends… not tonight.

Hooking his fingers behind the curved spikes of sharp teeth, one hand on each jaw, Bucky wrenches them apart. Rumlow whines as the gap widens unnaturally, and he struggles frantically to escape. Jaw hinges pop, and the black wolf writhes in Bucky’s grasp, shaking his head, trying to retreat, but Bucky has no intention of letting that happen.

“You’re going to die tonight,” Bucky spits at Rumlow, tightening his hold, edging the jaws still further apart. “For your sins, for the sins of your father and his before him. The line ends tonight. No one will carry your name, Rumlow. No one will even remember it.”

A howl tears from Rumlow as he tries in vain to scramble backward. But Bucky funnels every last shred of strength into his arms, and with one last ferocious heave, he forces them apart until the sickening sound of bone and flesh tearing replaces the shifter’s wailing and Rumlow goes limp in his hold.

Bucky drops the carcass to the side. He doesn’t wait for fur to recede, for the body to shift. Rumlow is dead, and for all Bucky knows, Steve could be, too.

He flies at the pile of wolves, wringing necks with his hands and slashing throats with his teeth, tossing the snapped and severed bodies out of his way, discarding them in the snow.

He finds Steve, crumpled over Nat, blood leaking from a gash in his chest, staining her fur. Bucky places a hand on her head, and her eyes flutter weakly as she whines.

“I need you to move, Steve. I can’t see what’s—”

The rest of Bucky’s words disappear in a shotgun blast and Clint’s anguished wail of Tony’s name.

Bucky feels like the world is moving in slow motion. He’s sprinting to Tony, but his limbs are heavy, and he doesn’t seem to be making any ground.  
  
He sees Clint lift the shotgun from Tony’s limp hand, press it to the wolf’s head, and pull the trigger. He watches the lycan’s head disappear in a thick mist of red as the body falls away, rolling down the steps, and landiing, human, in the snow.

But none of that matters, it’s just a distraction from the fact that Tony is lying lifeless in Clint’s arms, a gaping hole through his belly.

It feels like an age before Bucky is actually beside Tony. He can’t hear a heartbeat, can’t hear anything over the strange buzzing in his head. He shakes it, but it doesn’t clear.

He lifts Tony’s broken body and carries him into the house.

Tony’s head lolls to the side when Bucky places him on the table. He’s so still. Bucky puts a trembling hand on Tony’s chest and closes his eyes, focusing his every sense on trying to find a pulse, a beat, the smallest electrical impulse, or stuttered breath. Anything.

But there’s nothing.

The heartbreaking howl beside him trails into a scream, and Bucky’s eyes fly open to find Steve, kneeling on the floor. He grabs the edge of the table with trembling arms covered in patches of blood-soaked fur and pulls himself to a standing position with difficulty. His eyes are golden, and he has a large gouge ripped into his chest. But his face, pinched with concentration and pain, is fixed on Tony.

“Jesus, Steve! How the fuck—”

_”Fix him!_

Bucky opens his wrist again, dripping the dark blood around the ragged edges of Tony’s wound.

Nothing happens.

The blood flow slows as his wrist heals slowly, and he re-opens it savagely, squeezing his blood out with his other hand, watching it slide down Tony’s flesh, dripping across his skin and into his body, but nothing changes.

“Buck,” Steve grinds out, still clutching at the table for support. “Why isn’t it working?”

“Oh, shit. _Fuck!_ I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. There was a wolf—I saw it too late. Tony jumped in front of me and I accidentally — _fuck, fuck!_ ” Clint scrubs the tears from his face. “He’s dead, isn’t he? I killed him. Oh my god.”

“He’s not dead,” Steve barks. “He’s not… Buck? He _can’t_ be dead.” The agony in Steve’s voice has teeth sharper than any wolf.

Bucky moves as swiftly as he can, rushing to the sitting room to grab a large syringe before appearing back at the table. He tears the packaging off and attaches the needle. He rips a gash from his wrist again but doesn’t hold it over Tony. He slides the needle into his wound and fills the syringe before thrusting it directly into Tony’s static heart and depressing the plunger.

Tony can’t be dead. He can’t. The pain in his poisoned body is nothing to that screaming through his heart. _No. No. No._

Carefully, knowing how easy it would be for him to crush Tony’s chest cavity, Bucky presses down—again and again and again—trying to pump his own blood through Tony’s body.

“It’s not working.”

“It will work. It _has_ to.” There’s no other choice.

“Listen to me. He’s going to d—” Steve swallows, blinking wetly. “Tony _is_ dead. Your blood can’t heal him now. There’s only one option left.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I—no. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I know what you think, I know, but you’re wrong. You’re _not_ a monster, and Tony won’t be, either. Life is a choice, remember? Fate put him in your path twenty years ago, and again now. It brought you here, brought _us_ here, together, for a reason. That reason is for you to save him. You have to turn him.”

“Steve, I can’t…”

“Save him or damn him. He lives or dies by your hand, Buck. No one else can help him now.”

With a gasp, Steve’s hands slip from the table, and he tumbles to the floor. His eyes drift closed, and immediately, he begins to shift. Skin spreads and contracts as muscles mutate with practiced efficiency. Odd snaps, like knuckles cracking, fill the room as bones break and transform, and soft hair pushes through flesh, forcing up in patches until there’s no skin left to see. Steve’s whole form shudders, curling in on himself before his neck arches back and his skull deforms, pushing outward, elongating until finally, a large white wolf is stretched out on the floor.

The rhythmic thumping of Steve’s heart is strong and steady under Clint’s excited babbling, and Bucky turns his attention back to Tony.

It’s so easy for Steve to say _turn him_ , he doesn’t know what it’s like to be a newly turned vampire. Doesn’t know what he’s asking Bucky to put Tony through. And it’s not Steve’s hands Tony’s blood will stain if this doesn’t work. Though Bucky knows the basics—flood your victim with venom and watch it spread through them like a virus—he’s never successfully turned a human, let alone a fucking lycan. What if something goes wrong? If he does something wrong? What if Tony comes back as… something else.

He stares at the hole boring through Tony, some small part of him still waiting, hoping his blood combined with Tony’s lycan healing will yield a miracle. Bucky startles, a new thought blooming in the back of his mind.

_Tony’s lycan healing…_

Bucky pushes his fangs down. It’s been so long since he’s activated his venom glands, he’s not even sure he _can_ anymore. But he tightens his throat and rubs at the trigger point behind his fang with his tongue, and after a moment, he feels it—the thick liquid flowing through the roof of his mouth.

He lifts a finger and collects a single bead of liquid from his fang. It’s opalescent in the warm light of the kitchen, sparkling like a pearl instead of the death sentence it really is…or, more accurately, a life sentence of death.

He doesn’t know if Tony would want this. Is he being selfish? Is Steve? Damning Tony to save him? What if it’s for naught? What if it works and Tony survives but hates him for what he’s done?

Bucky presses the shiny drop of fluid to the puncture mark in Tony’s chest.

If it _doesn’t_ work—the thought tightens his chest, grief threatening to swallow him whole. He pushes the thought away. It’s going to work... and when it does, at least Tony will be alive to hate him. He can live with that if it means Tony will live, too.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I've lost all objectivity as to how bloody this is. To me, it's rather tame, but if you're sensitive, maybe... uh, read through your fingers? There are some graphic moments.
> 
> ii. Many thanks to The Ferret for listening to me bitch & whine and threaten to give up, and for saying what I didn't want to hear but needed to. <3

Tony is weightless and floating. Peace blankets him in a cocoon of warmth and safety, and golden light fills the infinite abyss as he lets himself drift. But the edges of his vision darken, burning away like a film reel set alight, and the serenity sheathing his skin turns sharp, prickling into pain and then... he’s _on fire._

Agony flares white-hot inside him, spreading through flesh, blood, and bone. He wants to scream and thrash, claw at his skin and strip it off, but he can’t move. Distorted voices stab into his brain, too loud and too quick for him to find words or meaning. Forcing his mouth open takes every ounce of his strength, but he needs to call out to Steve, to Bucky, to the universe itself—someone, something, anything to give him mercy, to end his pain …to let him die. But all that comes out is a desperate gasp, roughing over the sandpaper of his throat, ratcheting his pain even higher.

Fingers sweep through his hair gently, a stark contrast to the brutal anguish engulfing his body. Tony tries desperately to focus on the feel of the affectionate gesture and the familiar voice ghosting over his ear.

Warm liquid drips onto his face, splashing over his cheek before landing on his lips. The taste of metal slides over his tongue, and there’s heavy pressure in his upper jaw, and then _— oh._ The dull ache in his teeth spikes as his eyes fly open. He finds focus on the red spilling over flesh hovering six inches above his face, and his hands curl around it, bringing it close enough to sink his teeth into.

Pleasure explodes in his body, a million fireworks igniting at once, and Tony moans as blood rushes over his tongue. Streaming from the wound, sweet and thick, it’s extinguishing the fire in his throat and neutralizing the acid burning through his veins. He sucks greedily, throbbing in time with the pulse under his lips. He wants more, _needs_ more, but a hand curling in his hair yanks him back. Tony growls low in his throat as another hand wrenches his prize away, his teeth ripping through flesh as he fights to keep it.

The shout of pain pierces the bloodlust in Tony’s mind, and he battles against the voice inside him, telling him to drink... _to drain._

The cry had been… had been... Tony’s mind is a divergence of nebulous clouds of confusion and too-sharp sensory input, but after a frustrating moment of searching, he finds the answer. _Clint._ The pained cry had been Clint.

He bolts upright on the table, eyes darting wildly around the kitchen. His brain is reeling, struggling to take in too much information. He turns to see Clint rubbing fingers over the dark scar on his forearm. “I’m sorry. Did I—” Tony reaches for his best friend but stops, grimacing when Clint flinches away.

“He’ll be fine,” Bucky says dismissively, sweeping his hand through Tony’s hair again. “Are _you_ okay?”

Bucky’s voice is rough and low, and Tony can _feel_ it stroking over his skin like a caress. A shiver races down his spine. “I’m—” He swallows thickly. The taste of Clint still lingers on his tongue. “I don’t know,” he answers truthfully.

He doesn’t feel like himself. The slow breath pulled in through his nose does nothing to ease the tightness in his chest, just adds to the noise in his head. Everything is too much, too loud, too strong. The repeated banging of bodies against wood, the rushing of blood flowing through Clint’s veins, a dozen rapid heartbeats fluttering out of time. Wolf scent and sweat and blood and his own leaking arousal. Disjointed images flash through him—glowing eyes, silver chains, red-hot metal. And there’s something else, too... voices. So many voices—shouting, crying, _pleading._ Anxiety tightens his throat. Is he losing his mind? He’s going to explode, he’s sure of it, he isn’t strong enough to hold all of this inside.

At least the agony roaring through his body has eased, soothed by Clint’s blood. Now, there’s just pressure: sights and sounds pressing in on him, and visions and voices straining from the inside trying to get out. And everything just feels _wrong_ , like his skin doesn’t fit right. But Bucky is staring down at him, face pinched tight, and Tony shakes his head. “No, I’m okay… I think. I’m thirsty, my mouth is dry, my head feels funny, and I’m really, uh...” He pulls his knees to his chest, but not before Bucky’s eyes flick to the distended fabric of his jeans.

“I’m sorry. It takes some getting used to.”

The kitchen seems to shake around them as wolves continue to charge at the door with enough force to make the wood creak. The frenzied barking and scratching drown out the distorted voices swirling through Tony’s head.

Wanda and Pietro stand guard by the front door, coats bloody, ears pricked as they wait for the inevitable—for the wood to splinter and fail and let Obie’s pack into the house. Nat is nuzzling at Steve, lying motionless behind the twins, more red than white. None of them look in good shape.

“Is Steve okay? Why are we back inside?”

“He’s going to be fine and so are you. You were hurt. I had to—” Bucky shakes his head. “I’ll explain everything later, I promise. But Stane is still outside with what’s left of his pack. We have the advantage for now, but that won’t hold for long." He gives Tony a calculating look. "You don’t feel like ripping Barton’s throat out, do you? Or Steve’s?”

“Why would I—” Tony hesitates. Bucky’s words paint vivid pictures in his mind, of teeth sinking into flesh and fur, tearing muscles open and lapping at the rush of red spilling from the wounds. Excitement and revulsion roll through him, his teeth aching again. Though he can feel the velvety liquid cascading down his throat and a new, strange part of him _craves_ it, he knows he would never hurt Steve or Clint. He just wouldn’t. He blinks the vision away and shakes his head slowly. “No, I’m fine.”

Bucky’s shoulders sag slightly at the words, and he cups Tony’s face with both hands. “Good. That’s good.” His thumbs brush the corners of Tony’s lips. “Fuck, Tony. I’m so glad you’re... okay.”

The hands on Tony’s cheeks are tacky with blood, but that’s not what makes him startle. Bucky’s skin no longer feels cool against his own. “Why? What happened?” Tony rasps, panic swelling inside him like a rising tide. “Why do I feel so…” he gestures helplessly, “different?”

“Because you died.” The words burst free from Clint like a dam breaking. “You died. I killed you. I’m so sorry, Tony.”

 _“You killed me?”_ Tony’s jaw goes slack as the jumble of puzzle pieces in his mind start falling into place: dead, cold, blood... Bucky. _Ah_.

“It was an accident!” Clint bristles. “And it was mostly your fault. You jumped in front of me to save me, which, thank you, by the way, but I was already getting ready to shoot and…” He winces, his eyes unfocusing like he’s reliving the moment before he shakes his head. “But Bucky saved you, and you just took most of my blood, so I think we’re pretty much even.”

“I’m a...vam—mosquito now?” He feels stupid for even asking. Of course he is. In the moment, he hadn’t stopped to question the fact he was drinking blood, but... he’d drunk blood. _Blood_ -blood. Now that the moment has passed, it seems like something he should question, even if he knows the answer. His stomach clenches, and he clamps his jaw shut—he does _not_ want to revisit his... meal. _Oh, god._ Tony presses a hand to his mouth and tries to shift his focus to the scowl tugging on Bucky’s brows.

“No… not entirely. I only used a drop of venom, just enough to restart your heart.”

“You knew that would work?”

“No, I was just hoping it would be enough to bond to your lycan blood and sort of... super-charge your healing. It worked, but... fuck, we really don’t have time for this. You’re alive, that’s all that matters, the rest we can figure out later,” Bucky mutters, sinking to his knees and running a bloody hand over Steve’s chest, using his other to brush through the fur, checking for more injuries.

“He doesn’t look good.” Tony slides smoothly off the table before leaning against it. His whole body feels like it's pulsating under his skin, vibrating with... something Tony can't put a name to. It feels good.  
  
Steve whines weakly as Bucky rubs more blood over his injured foreleg.

“Lycans heal fastest when shifted, and even with the severity of his wounds, he’ll be fine by sunrise. But we don’t have the luxury of waiting. Stane is going to realize brute force isn’t going to work soon and start looking for another way inside. We have to take the fight to him, but the pack won’t survive the fight in their current condition.”

Tony notices the tremble weaving through Bucky’s body as he moves over to Nat and presses his hand to the bloody, gaping gash on her flank. The fact he doesn’t have to re-open the wound on his hand registers in Tony’s brain as a bad sign. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”

“Shifter venom. It won’t do anything to hurt this lot, but it’s slowing my healing and therefore theirs.”

“Can’t you drink from Clint? Heal yourself?”

“ _Hey!_ I am standing right here. You don’t get to offer me up like I’m your personal juice box, Stark!”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Barton, and you know it. But you’re the only one here that can heal him so he can heal everyone else.”

Clint looks toward Nat and frowns.

“No, Clint’s right. He’s already given you all he can afford. He’s human. It’s going to take some time for him to replenish his blood volume. If I take any more from him, it could kill him.”

“I would like to avoid that if possible,” Clint interjects grimly. “It did not look fun.”

“This is the best I can do right—” Bucky breaks off, staring at Tony. “You,” he breathes.

“ _Me?_ Me what?”

“You’re at least part vampire, now. Maybe your blood—”

Tony is on his knees beside Steve before Bucky finishes the sentence. “How do I…” he makes a crude fang gesture with his fingers in front of his lips, and Bucky’s scowl returns.

“Do you remember how it felt to bite Clint?”

The memories wash over Tony, warm like Clint’s blood, and he feels the pressure as his teeth—no, his fangs—push down. He presses his tongue to the peak, but it doesn’t slice open as it had against Bucky’s inside the station.

Bucky comes to Tony at human speed, unable to hide the spasms wracking his body. He drops to a crouch with a groan. “Thirst, anger, and arousal are all triggers, and your fangs will drop automatically. But you can draw them down and push them back up by choice when you need to,” he murmurs. “You just have to focus.” Large hands wrap around Tony’s wrist and lift it to his mouth. “Slice open your palm with your fang, then press it to Steve’s wound.”

Tony expects pain as he rips through his own flesh, but there’s nothing more than a fleeting pang and then it’s gone. He can feel the tear in his hand, the slight give of the skin, but nothing else. He lowers it, staring down at the liquid pooling in his palm, shining obsidian in the light. Black blood. _Bucky’s blood._ “This is normal now, right?”

“You have both shifter and vampire blood, and as far as I know, you’re the first of your kind. There is no _normal_ anymore.” Bucky smiles fondly. “But then, there never was with you; you’ve always been extraordinary.”

Tony rolls his eyes but can’t help the pleased little smile curling his lips. “Bucky? This _will_ work, won’t it?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Bucky presses Tony’s hand to Steve’s chest.

Red-stained fur turns black as fresh blood smears across it. Steve’s heart is beating quickly under Tony’s hand, and the longer it lingers, the stronger it becomes. But he can feel something else, odd movement, and he lifts it to watch ragged muscle sending out tendrils of connective tissue to its severed half and slowly cinch together, becoming whole before torn skin starts to do the same. It’s incredible. It’s like a time-lapse video happening in real life, and a strange pride swells inside Tony. It’s not as quick as Bucky’s almost instantaneous healing, but it’s _his_ blood helping Steve.

His skin is tingling, and he shifts his gaze to his palm. There’s no wound and no scar. He curls his fingers inward before stretching them out again, spreading and flexing, watching the muscles and tendons dance under unblemished skin.

_Tony!_

Steve lifts to his feet and rushes forward, licking at Tony’s face.

_I’m so glad you’re okay!_

Steve’s voice threads through Tony’s mind as clearly as if he’d spoken. But, he didn’t... he _couldn’t._ All at once, the clamoring in Tony’s head makes sense, and his building anxiety breaks on a breathless laugh as he pushes Steve’s face away and wipes his own with the back of his hand. But he can’t wipe away his smile.

The voices aren’t voices, they’re _thoughts_ —Steve, Nat, Wanda, and Pietro—and Tony can hear them all.

“Tony?”

Shaking his head at Bucky, Tony runs his hands through Steve’s fur. “I can hear them. I can understand them.”

Bucky rubs his hand over the deep scratches on Wanda’s belly. “Well, would you look at that, the tide’s turning, some good fucking luck for a change.”

“Does that make Tony your good luck charm, then?” Clint sighs from the floor beside Nat. “Because I can already think of six different ways to use that to embarrass him later.”

“Embarrassing your boss is grounds for immediate termination,” Tony grins, climbing to his feet but keeping one hand on Steve’s head. He can’t stop the bubble of laughter slipping past his lips. He’s petting his telepathic wolf lover, and ten minutes ago, he was drinking his best friend. The surreality of the entire situation leaves him light-headed, his brain searching for even a tenuous tether to normality and finding nothing but the edges of hysteria instead.

Bucky’s eyes narrow at the giddy display. “You need to keep it together. At least until you tell me Steve’s plan C.”

Tony’s brows pinch tighter as each new step of Steve’s plan echoes in his mind. There’s a strange authority to the voice now, and the words make him want to drop to his knees and submit. But he fights it. “No, Steve, that’s...”

“Let me guess,” Bucky cuts in, “he wants to go out there and take on all the shifters by himself.”

“No, just one. He thinks if he defeats Obie, alpha against alpha, the rest of the pack will leave.”

“And if Stane wins, all the wolves attack, and we won’t have you to fight with us. Don’t be stupid, Steve.”

Steve whines softly, padding over to Bucky before sitting at his feet. He tips his head up, staring Bucky in the eye.

“He needs you to trust he knows what he’s doing this time,” Tony says softly.

“Jesus, Steve... this isn’t some back alley fight. I know you’re strong, but you’re not immortal, and you’re limited by morals Stane is not. If you command them not to interfere and that bastard has all his mutts attack you, I’m not strong enough right now to save you. He’ll kill us all and take Tony anyway. Do you really want to risk that for alpha pride?”

Steve growls low in his throat.

“He’s saying—”

“No, I know what he’s saying,” Bucky growls back. He strides to the door muttering under his breath, and all the wolves scamper out of the way, their coats dark and matted but wounds healed. Nat and the twins plant their feet on the wooden floor and pull back like a cocked gun, waiting. Steve takes his place behind them. Tony grabs his gun and gets into position on Steve’s left, and Clint scrambles to mirror Tony’s position on the right.

“Okay. Ready or not...” Bucky pulls open the door, and two large tan and white wolves tumble inside, obviously not expecting their wooden barrier to be revoked. The first line surges forward, flashes of red, brown, and white pouncing on the two intruders quickly as Steve leaps over them and disappears outside, Bucky following slowly behind.

Tony darts around the heap of fur and teeth still locked in battle in the kitchen, before clearing the railing and racing toward Steve the minute his feet hit the ground. Steve finds a path between the three large remaining wolves, dodging between two and jumping over the third. Obie darts to the left and Steve circles to the right and Tony can hear the negotiations in his head. Alpha versus alpha... winner earns the right to Tony.

Indignation swells inside him—he’s no one’s prize—but he knows Steve had chosen the wording purposefully, to appeal to Obie’s ego and goad him into accepting the terms—into fighting for Tony himself.  
  
It works.

The three wolves, all that remains of Stane’s pack, form a line behind him, just as Nat and the twins—with Pietro limping—do the same for Steve.

The tension in the air is suffocating, and Tony swallows dryly around the fear for Steve threatening to choke him. He knows how vicious Obie can be. But Tony wills his mind calm, knowing Steve can hear his thoughts, knows his fears. But even through the anxiety, his confidence in Steve shines bright. Steve is a bigger, stronger wolf, and a more courageous, kinder, better man. He's going to win. He has to.

As if spurred on by the thought, Steve attacks, flying at Obie, catching the scruff of his neck between snapping jaws, but Obie drops to the ground and rolls, forcing Steve off him. They lunge at each other again, landing hard in the snow, kicking up white clouds that cling to their coats. Even Tony’s eyes can’t follow the frantic movement as they roll—scratching, biting, tearing. The scent of fresh blood fills the air as they tumble, locked together in a desperate attempt to gain the upper hand. Eventually, Obie falls, panting in the snow, and Steve opens his jaws wide, teeth glinting white in the moonlight, dripping red before they disappear into Obie’s throat.

For one thrilling moment, hope floods Tony’s chest. _Steve did it._ He won. Everything’s going to be okay. 

But the three wolves spring forward, knocking Steve off Obie, attacking as one. Teeth and claws slash at Steve’s body as he struggles to get out from under them, but it’s no use.

Tony’s lungs empty with a scream as he charges forward, his hand disappearing into the nearest wolf’s chest. Ribs splinter and slice at his skin, but Tony doesn’t stop until his hand curls around a thin, notched ridge. He yanks his arm back out of the shifter's body. The wolf collapses onto the ground, already phasing back to human before Tony drops the severed spine to the ground.

The second wolf flies at him, but Bucky grabs it’s legs, swinging it away before it can reach Tony, and slams it into the ground. He collapses over it, hissing as the lycan closes its jaws around the flesh of his arm. Straining to keep hold of the wolf, Bucky rolls, tucking himself under the hulking form and exposing its back. Tony jumps on top of it, anchoring his arms around its heaving body and squeezes. Bucky’s eyes meet Tony’s and he nods, lifting his arms to mirror Tony’s, compressing the creature's ribcage. The shifter's whine breaks off abruptly as strong arms crush its chest completely, and the broken body falls limply onto Bucky.

A gasp shocks from Tony’s throat as the third shifter knocks him off its now-dead kin. The world blurs as he’s sent flying through the air. His head collides with something hard and his vision blows out, flaring white before he blinks the haze away. Twisting his neck, he sees a large rock, black with blood. He wraps his hand around it and lifts it just as the shifter reaches him, and Tony slams the rock into the side of the wolf’s head, the force shoving it off course, to his left. In a blink, his thighs are stretched apart, straddling the wolf’s chest as he brings the rock down repeatedly until the skull caves in, and blood bursts bright across the snow.

_I should have known you were defective from the start. Always fighting me tooth and nail, such a disgrace to your designation._

Obie’s voice slithers through Tony’s mind as he raises to his feet. He turns toward the vile creature that had haunted his nightmares for too long.

_I can show you how to do it —how to shift at will. You just need a firm hand, Tony. Someone to teach you your place, someone to submit to. It’s not too late. You can come home._

Obie’s paws scratch at the ground, and for a moment, Tony is sure Obie’s going to lunge at him, but he moves slowly, arcing to Tony’s left—circling him.

"I _am_ home. This is my family, now. I won’t let you take them from me.” Tony turns in a slow circle as Obie stalks around him, and he can feel the malice chafing through his brain as Obie’s cold words slide through his head.

_Family is a funny thing, boy. It's no good for anything but making you soft. You let them get close enough and they'll slip a knife into your back, and you never even see it coming. Your father was planning to take my pack all those years ago. Did you know that? I must admit it tickled me to think he was coming for what’s mine, and I ended up taking what was his instead. It was fitting, don’t you think? Still, I almost had you taken care of, too, but it seemed like such a waste to get rid of a perfectly good omega. My own, hand-reared breeding bitch. But then you ran away before you came of age, before you could serve your purpose and give me an heir. You always were such an ungrateful little bitch, just like your mother._

Tony growls. “You’re going to regret that.”

_My only regret is that you didn’t die in that crash along with your parents. You were supposed to. It was supposed to take you all out, but good help is hard to find these days, and break lines are so unpredictable._

Understanding crystalizes in a split second, and in the next, Tony is flying at Obie. His arms outstretched in front of him transform into legs, and his straining hands reaching for Obie’s throat expand into large, silver-grey paws and he smashes into the black wolf.

Shock and confusion buzz through him. He tries desperately to get a handle on his new form as Obie snarls and strains forward, snapping down on his muzzle. Whining, Tony yanks his head back and warm blood chases the retreating teeth as they scrape over his face.

Obie turns, drops his head and strong jaws clamp around Tony’s hind leg. The bone splintering sends shooting pain up his leg into his hip. Tony cries out, the scream in his head pushing out in a wailing howl. Scrabbling at Obie’s thick coat, his claws catch and hold on the powerful muscles beneath, and he drives them as deep as he can before recoiling his paws, feeling them shred the flesh.

Obie’s pained whimper dies quickly, but after all the distressed sounds he had torn from Tony over the years, it’s the sweetest sound Tony has ever heard.

He pulls himself to his feet, holding his injured leg aloft. He can already feel the bone mending, pinching tight. Obie twists, trying to lick his wounds, but the clumsy efforts don’t stop the blood dripping onto the snow. The sight fills Tony with a perverse satisfaction and a rush of conviction. He can do this; he’s strong enough now. He can fight back... _and he can win._

Obie’s anger burns through his pain—Tony feels it rush through his body in a flash of heat before the large wolf leaps at him, mouth open. Tony springs forward to meet him mid-air, jaws reaching for Obie’s neck, but the big wolf brings his head down, swinging it harshly into Tony’s, knocking him to the side. Fresh pain bursts bright behind his eyes.

A heavy weight thumps onto him—Obie pinning him down—before a large paw lifts and comes down swiftly, slicing through his chest. Tears leak from Tony’s eyes as his own screams fill his head, drowning out everything else. Sharp nails pierce deep into his chest—cleaving through muscle and carving through bone. He freezes, the familiar terror rising in his mind, the phantom sensation of metal gouging into his chest, the memory of his life leaving him, turning the world cold and dark. Tony can feel Obie tearing at him, but his vision is filled with broken, glittering glass, twisted metal, his parent’s slumped, lifeless bodies... 

Tony blinks the horror away. Obie hadn’t killed him then, and he’s not going to now. Tony isn’t a child anymore. He’s not helpless. He doesn’t need to be saved; he’s going to save himself.

Ignoring the searing pain, Tony stretches forward, bringing his teeth together around the only thing in reach—Obie’s ear—and yanks his head down, feeling the thin flesh tear, coming away in his mouth. Teeth pull out of his shoulder as Obie whines and paws at his head.

Taking advantage of Obie’s new position, Tony lets the ear fall away and locks his jaws around Obie’s foreleg, and with a violent shake, broken bone and severed flesh comes away in his mouth. The anguished wail is a chorus of angels singing as Obie crumples on top of him, the bloody stump gushing red over them both.

Tony rolls, kicking up a cloud of white as he reverses their positions. He curls his claws into Obie’s chest, feeling them pit into ribs as he stares down at his childhood tormenter.

The sharp pain in Tony’s chest eases—the cold air no longer bites at his heart, and the tightness he’s come to associate with healing presses in on him as bones, muscle, skin, and fur knit back in place.

_How?_

Obie’s question echoes through Tony’s head on a wave of disbelief.

_I’m more, now. More than you ever thought I could be. You were wrong to come here, Obie. If I let you go, I know you’re just going to keep coming back, trying to kill me or the people I love. I’m sorry, but I can’t let that happen._

Tony drives his claws deeper, the resistance of bone giving under the pressure, and he drags his paw down, ripping through Stane’s soft underbelly from chest to cock. The skin sags to the side, peeling back as a mass of slippery, red intestines spill from their furred and flesh prison, cascading onto the frozen ground in a pool of blood.

The sight triggers something inside him, and he staggers backward. Tony feels his body changing, and when his ass lands in the snow, he’s as human as the corpse in front of him.

His brain blanks, struggling to accept the enormity of what he’s just done. He killed Obie. He killed the man that raised him and... he doesn’t feel anything. The world should feel different, shouldn’t it? _He_ should feel different. Better or worse or something. But Obie’s death means nothing to the world, why should it mean something to him? It isn’t a noble sacrifice or a tragedy of a life taken too soon; it’s just another soul slipping away into the ether. No one will care, no one will mourn Obie—least of all Tony.

“Tony?” Bucky holds out a hand but doesn’t touch him. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

Tony startles, twisting back to look over his shoulder. So preoccupied with Obie, he had forgotten about the rest of the pack.

“Hey, no. It’s okay. It’s over. Everyone’s okay.”

 _Okay_ is a bit of an overstatement. Fur is ripped and matted with blood, multiple injured legs are tucked to bodies, Steve has a gash starting above his eye—now clouded white—and ending well below it, Nat is missing the end of her tail, and Pietro’s down an ear, but at least they’re all still breathing... which is more than he can say for Obie and his pack.

Tony places his hand in Bucky’s and unfolds himself off the ground with shaky legs. He’s exhausted. He could sleep for a week... Is that a thing he still does? He turns his gaze skyward, to the heavy clouds that had rolled in some time between the start of the fight and the end. He smiles as the first small flakes drift down and settle on his cheeks.

“What happens now?”  
.  
Bucky tucks Tony to his side and turns him away from the carnage, starting toward the house. “Now, we get you some clothes, tend to the wounded, and then you get a well-deserved nap.”

Tony looks down at his naked body. "Oh. Yeah, that sounds like a plan." He resists the urge to cup a hand over his dick as he lets himself be guided back to the house. After everything that has just happened, it seems silly to be overly modest now.  
  
On the porch, leaning against the broken railing, Clint gives him a tight smile and a thumbs up.  
  
Tony returns the gesture before snuggling closer to Bucky, frowning at the way he's trembling. Tony can feel the moon's pull on him waning and knows it will be sunrise soon. He’ll heal Steve, and when Steve transforms Bucky can feed and heal. Together, they make a perfect circle... triangle? Whatever it is, it's perfect, his tired brain decides. Almost like it's meant to be. Tony hums happily, his lips curving up at the thought as he enters the kitchen.

“What are you smiling about?”

“We won,” Tony answer simply, taking the offered blanket from Clint and wrapping it around his waist. The wolves pad into the living room and form a line, Steve to Pietro. Tony tucks the end of the blanket in tightly before going through the now familiar motions of opening his palm and salving it over the wounds. “I never really thought we would. We were so outnumbered.”

Bucky lowers himself onto the floor in front of Steve, leaning back into the thick cushion of fur. “Of course we won. We had a special weapon.”

“Me?” Tony teases, pressing a kiss to the top of Steve’s head before rising and moving to Nat.

“I was going to say something worth fighting for, but, sure, let’s go with you.” Bucky closes his eyes, a small smile lifting his cheeks.

“I think we all deserve a portion of the credit, personally,” Clint adds, coming out from the hallway, Lucky in tow. Gingerly, he lowers himself to the couch, cursing when Lucky jumps onto him and settles himself over Clint’s legs. “And I think I deserve the largest portion given that as the only mere mortal among you, I was at considerably more risk and therefore much braver.”

“Oh, are you still here, Barton?” Bucky asks offhandedly. “I thought after you killed Tony and ruined the carefully laid plans, you took off. Thanks for sticking around and not killing anyone else.”

“You don’t really need two boyfriends, do you, Tony? I think we should put it to a vote which one is better. Loser has to do ten laps of the house at noon.”

Tony rolls his eyes as Bucky laughs. “I wouldn’t push your luck, Clint. You are aware right now you’re nothing but a blood bag in best friend’s clothing, yeah?”

Nat’s nails click over the wooden floor as she makes her way to the couch, drops down beside it, and places her head on Clint’s chest. He hesitates before lifting a hand and stroking it over her head. Lucky licks Nat’s nose twice before nuzzling against her.

“Sorry, pal, I saw her first,” Clint murmurs, his lips curving up as his eyelids draw down.

The twins, now covered in more of Tony’s blood, curl up together against the front door, and Tony makes his way back to the living room. He drops down beside Bucky, leaning back against Steve. He trails his hand through the soft, dense fur until he finds a sticky, matted mess, and he wrinkles his nose.

“You are a mess.”

“We should give him a bath,” Bucky agrees, amusement dancing through his words.

Tony grins at Steve's voice slinking through his mind. “He says he’ll take us up on that tomorrow when he can enjoy it more.”

The room gradually fills with soft, steady breathing, the adrenaline from the fight giving way to exhaustion, and one by one, the spent bodies around Tony surrender to sleep. But not unlike in the station, he can sense Bucky’s slumber isn’t what it appears.

“I have questions,” he says quietly, smiling when his hunch turns out to be right, and Bucky answers immediately.

“I’m not sure I have the answers. I’ve never turned anyone before, or half-turned someone... I only did it to save your life.”

“I know. And I realize now I didn’t thank you for that, so thank you,” Tony says earnestly.

Bucky’s face darkens, though his eyes remain closed. “You don’t hate me?”

“Why would I hate you?”

“For what I took from you.”

Tony places his hand on Bucky’s in his lap, squeezing tightly. “You didn’t take anything from me. You gave me a second chance—again. I think... I think you’ve converted me.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Bucky comments dryly.

Tony chuckles. “No. I think I’m coming around to being a pro-fate kind of guy.”

Bucky opens his eyes at that, staring at Tony intently. “Really? What changed your mind?”

“Yeah. It’s like fate kept giving you opportunities to turn me—the car accident, the wolf attack, and again, tonight. Maybe now you finally have, it’ll stop putting me in life or death scenarios.”

“That would be a nice change of pace.”

“So would you no longer blaming yourself for things that weren’t your fault.”

“Such as?”

“When I was fighting Obie, I could hear his thoughts just like Steve’s. He orchestrated the accident. _He_ is responsible for my parent’s deaths, not you."

“Tony...”

“It was never your fault. The accident was going to happen anyway, just like you said. The only reason I survived is because you were there, and the only reason you were there is because of Rumlow’s kin taking you.”

Bucky jerks forward. “How do you know about that?”

“Through my lycan blood, I can hear Steve’s thoughts, and I think when you saved me, it gave me a connection to you, too. I can see your memories. Some of them, at least.” Tony lifts his hand, placing his palm flat over the red-tinged skin he knows is hidden under the now-ragged shirt. The burn that had once been a brand. “I know what they did to you—captured, tortured, and experimented on you. It was only because you escaped that night that you were there to save me. And even though you must have known my parents were shifters, must have smelled it on them, you saved me anyway. You were never a monster Bucky, you were and still are a good man. And one I’ve kind of fallen in love with.”

Bucky opens his mouth but closes it again, relaxing back against Steve, and taking Tony’s hand. “I love you, too.”

“Even though I’m a weird hybrid creature? A... lycanpire?”

Bucky snorts. “If that’s what you want to call yourself you can, I think I’ll stick to Tony. But, yes, I love you. And I loved the way you sprouted fur and ripped that asshole apart.”

“Yeah, that was…”

“ _Amazing_ is what it was. I’m really proud of you, Tony.”

Tony hums thoughtfully. He’s never had anyone say those words to him before, but it feels... nice. Weird but warm and... he startles as he realizes he’s proud of himself, as well. He may have conquered his demons, but he hadn't done it alone. “I feel more like me with you inside me,” he confesses softly.

Bucky’s lips twist up in perfect beat with his eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Not like _that_ ,” Tony chuckles. “But this… whatever I am now, with parts of you and Steve inside me, lycan and vampire.” For once, Tony doesn’t stumble over the word. Something had changed outside, he's settled more fully into himself, like his body had accepted Bucky's blood instead of fighting it. “It feels _right._ Like it’s meant to be.”

“Fate,” Bucky murmurs.

“Fate,” Tony echoes softly, resting his head on Bucky's shoulder and giving in to sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

“Tony?”

Bruce’s shocked gasp jolts Tony out of sleep, though the visions of wandering hands and hot mouths still linger in his mind. His eyes feel gritty as he blinks himself awake—or as close to awake as he’s going to get without coffee, at least. Still, it takes him a moment to register the look of horror on Bruce’s face as he stands silhouetted by the soft light of morning streaming through the open doorway. Tony frowns, rubbing his eyes blearily, not sure what’s wrong, but knowing it’s definitely too early for whatever it is. “Oh, hey. What’s up, Doc?”

“Hey? _Hey?_ Tony! There are _dead bodies all over the yard_ and you’re in here having an _orgy?’_

“Orgy?” Tony jerks to a sitting position. He lifts the hand from his lap before placing it gently into Bucky's own. “Oh, no, it’s not what y—” he stutters to a stop, a flash of red pulling his focus: Nat shifting in sleep, slotting her body more tightly against Clint’s—her very human, very naked body. Tony averts his gaze quickly, landing on the twins curled up together as they had been in wolf form, and suddenly he understands Bruce’s conclusion. He twists and looks down at Steve lying behind him, his cheeks tingling with heat as he drinks in the very human and very glorious naked body. Bucky’s fully dressed form is the only thing hiding Steve's morning wood—complete with burgeoning knot—from Bruce’s view. “Umm,” Tony finishes eloquently.

“It’s a long story.” Bucky murmurs without opening his eyes.

“I’ll make time,” Bruce retorts sourly, and Tony frowns. That doesn’t sound like Banner at all.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Steve yawns, stretching, and Tony can feel the miles of sculpted muscles moving against his back, and he’s suddenly very grateful for his blanket.

“Bruce just dropped by for a visit and, oh, no, don’t get up,” Tony plants his hand on Steve’s shoulder, stopping him mid-rise. “Uh, the only thing protecting your, umm... _modesty_ is Bucky.”

Steve nods, eyes lighting with understanding, and curls up a little closer against Bucky. “Right.”

“Maybe you should all get dressed while I go outside and talk to Bruce,” Tony mumbles, pushing to his feet, tightening his makeshift-loincloth.

“That may not be the best idea,” Steve says quietly.

“I just don’t want to _— oh._” Tony nods slowly. “Yeah. Maybe we should talk in the kitchen instead.” Though he’d prefer to let sleeping wolves lie, waking everyone may be the lesser of two evils until he’s sure he’s not going to burst into flames the second he walks outside. This hybrid thing is going to take some getting used to.

He stifles a yawn as he pads toward Bruce and drops into what he now considers _his_ chair at the kitchen table, thankfully facing toward the door and not the naked bodies decorating the living room.

Bruce hesitates for a moment before sighing and moving into the house. He lowers himself onto the chair beside Tony and leans close enough for the heavy green coat he’s wearing to scrape against Tony’s bare chest. “What the hell is going on?" He hisses quietly. "Is this—did you get involved in some kind of Satanic cult while I was gone? Are you being held against your will?”

Laughter bubbles up Tony’s throat and spills over before he can clamp a hand across his lips. The distinct sounds of the pack stirring, waking, and shuffling to their feet fill the gaps between his giggles. “No, it’s nothing like that,” he manages a full three minutes later. At Bruce’s suspicious look, Tony shakes his head. “I swear, it’s not. I’m fine. In fact, I’ve never been better.” He can feel the heavy weight of twin gazes on his back before they lift, disappearing along with the sounds of a dozen feet into the hallway. “A lot has happened since you’ve been gone...” Tony’s eyes narrow on the dried mess on Bruce’s coat. “Like the fact you’ve apparently acquired the ability to throw up on your own shoulder. That’s impressive.”

Bruce’s pinched expression immediately softens. “Oh, no, that’s Nicky.”

“Nicky? Whats a Nicky?”

Bruce’s face floods with pink. It clashes horribly with the green coat, but it’s filled with so much affection Tony can’t bring himself to mock it. “It's Nick, actually. Uh, Maria’s boy. She gave birth early, but she’s okay, they’re both okay, they’re both… perfect,” he sighs.

Tony leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he whistles. “Oh ho, Brucey, look at you, going away and coming back with a ready-made family. Although, you’ve kinda missed out on the fun part.” He winks, expecting some of Bruce’s trademark spluttering, shrugging, and mumbled denials, but all he gets is a small, shy smile.

“You don’t think it’s stupid?” His voice is uncertain like he’s expecting Tony to keep teasing him, and to be fair, it’s a valid assumption. But Tony is captivated by the look on Bruce’s face, the utter reverence and love warming his sparkling, brown eyes. It’s pure joy. Tony had known Bruce was smitten with Maria, knew it from the first time she’d wandered into the clinic when Tony had been visiting Bruce and watched him knock a box of disposable otoscope tips to the floor and just about swallowed his tongue. They’d become fast friends, but Tony had never figured Bruce would find the courage to tell Maria how he felt... but he’d been wrong. It seems a lot more than his species classification had changed in the past few days.

“No, I think it’s great,” Tony says earnestly. He knows the importance of family, and now knows choosing them for yourself makes them no less family than those thrust upon you at birth. “I think the kid would be lucky to grow up with you as a father,” he says honestly. “And having seen you in the showers after squash, I know Maria’s pretty lucky, too.” He smirks, pleased to finally draw those familiar stuttered protests from Bruce’s lips.

“Jesus, Tony, you can’t—” Bruce shakes his head before blinking like waking from a trance. “No. You can’t do that—can’t distract me. Clearly, _other_ things have changed, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like _you_. You’re sitting there naked but for a blanket around your waist when there’s snow on the ground, the scars on your chest have gone, and so has the color from your eyes. Not to mention you seem to have forgotten the small matter of the mass murder display outside. What the fuck is going on, Tony? I’m not sure if I’m losing my mind or you are.”

Tony tucks his chin to his chest and stares down at it. It’s unblemished but for the one dark scar that’s been his constant companion for as long as he can remember. He wonders if the other marks on his body have disappeared, too. It would be fitting to have them vanish the same night as the man who made them. He trails his fingers over the smooth flesh, softly. Fate had given him a second chance at life and taken all the painful reminders of his old one, leaving only the memory he wanted to keep: Bucky.

“It’s not what you think, and it wasn’t murder, it was self-defense,” Tony says quietly, clasping his hands in his lap as he re-finds Bruce’s gaze. “Obie is one of the bodies. He brought some… ah, _friends_ here last night, trying to take me back with him. He nearly—” he breaks off, realizing he can’t admit Obie had nearly killed everyone here when no-one has a scratch on them. “He nearly succeeded. If Steve and his family hadn’t intervened, I’d either be a prisoner in New York right now or amongst the dead outside.”

“Obie? But… that doesn’t make sense. There are _so many_ bodies. You can trust me.” Bruce lays his hand over Tony’s arm before recoiling. “What—why are you so...”

“You might as well tell him everything, Tony,” Steve says softly, appearing from the hallway, mow dressed, Bucky at his shoulder. “He’s going to find out eventually, he should hear it from you.”

Bruce swivels in his chair, twisting from Tony to Steve and back again. “Tell me what? What’s _really_ going on?”

Tony sighs. He’d been hoping to avoid dragging everyone he knows into his new life. But maybe now Rumlow and Obie are both dead, there’s no reason to hide it, no danger of painting a target onto anyone else. And it would be nice not to have secrets from his old family about his new. But Bruce’s mind is very much set in science and medicine, and Tony knows his acceptance will be slow, just like his own had been—not everyone is as easy as Barton.

“You might as well get comfortable; it’s a long story. And, hey, completely unrelated, but did you leave those Benzos in my truck?”

“You’re not going to burst into flames, Tony. I promise,” Bucky chuckles. “I’m a hundred percent vampire, and even I don’t ash up at first UV contact. It’s about intensity and exposure. But even if you do have a reaction, you have your lycan first-aid kit right here—” he says, motioning to Steve “—you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony says sagely, but not moving from his spot, hovering in the doorway, Bucky behind him, Steve beside. “But maybe we should wait until it’s not so… noon-ish. Just until we’re sure?”

It had taken longer than Tony had expected to convince Bruce of the existence of vampire and lycans even with visual aids. He might have had more luck with a PowerPoint presentation rather than stumbling over his words, thankfully saved—again—by contributions from both Steve and Bucky. By the time Bruce had left, still slightly dazed-looking, with a hesitant wave and the promise to man the station on full moons, the sun was high in the sky, and Tony couldn’t fight back the small surge of fear at the thought of stepping out into it.

“Aw, would you look at that, Stevie, our boyfriend, the chicken.”

“I am not—your boyfriend?” Tony feels his mouth drop open without prompting, but can’t seem to find the brain command to close it.

“You’re not?” Steve raises an eyebrow.

“Not what?” Tony asks after swallowing thickly.

“Our boyfriend?” Bucky looks at him expectantly.

“Oh. No, I a—ah, I just didn’t know we were using labels already.”

“A half-vampire, half-lycan hybrid sheriff slash conservation officer that doesn’t want a label?” Bucky smirks. “You’re adorable.”

“Isn’t that—I mean, is that _not_ what you want?” Confusion clouds Steve’s face. “I thought after everything that’s happened, I guess I just assumed...”

"It _is_ what I want. Sorry, it’s just—I’ve had plenty of casual sex, friends with benefits, one night stands...”

“We get it,” Bucky says dryly, “You’ve gotten around. I’m amazed that little hole of yours is still so tight.”

Heat floods Tony’s face, and he lifts his hands to cover it, groaning. “Oh my god. Jesus, Bucky.”

Chuckling, Bucky presses up behind him, slotting his hips just so, and Tony can’t stop himself from jutting back, already feeling the now-familiar slick stirrings of arousal. But Bucky just reaches up and catches Tony’s hands, pulling them away from his face and tucks them, along with his own, across Tony’s chest. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart?”

“Whatever it is, it’s okay,” Steve adds softly.

“My point is, with everything that has happened in my past, I’ve always been wary about getting too close to anyone. It was always scratching an itch. I never even spent a second thinking about trying to find someone to settle down and raise a family with, y’know? So a boyfriend is uncharted territory, _boyfriends,_ plural, might as well be the moon. I’m not sure I know how to _be_ one,” Tony admits quietly.

“All you have to be is yourself, that’s all we want. Boyfriend is just a word, something to let everyone know that you’re _mine_.”

Bucky kicks a leg out, catching Steve in the calf. _"Ours,"_ he corrects, though his voice is light. “And that we’re _yours_ ,” he adds, placing a kiss on the back of Tony’s neck. “If you’ll have us.”

Tony melts back into the embrace, the tension borne from overanalyzing slipping from his shoulders. “Yeah, I’ll have you... in fact,” Tony grinds back against Bucky, smiling at the sharp hiss “I wouldn’t say no to _having you_ right now.

“Is this just you trying to get out of the sunlight experiment,” Bucky’s hot breath ghosts over Tony’s ear before he nips at it.

The spike of pain shooting from his ear and separating into a dozen sparks of pleasure, like shooting stars, all heading for his dick, and Tony can't stop the pitiful whine rushing from his throat. "No, this is me telling you I want _you_ in my _tight little hole_." When Bucky growls, low and delicious behind him, Tony throws a little _'Please’_ in for good measure.

Sharp teeth drag over the sensitive skin of Tony’s neck, not hard enough to slice into it just enough to make him whimper and whine, wanting _more_. “I don’t know; your alpha is awfully possessive of it. What do you say, Stevie? Think you can wait for sloppy seconds before trying to put more pups in him?”

“You can take all the time you need to make him feel good, Buck,” Steve husks out lowly as he crowds into Tony’s space, eyes dark. He slides a large, warm hand down Tony’s belly. “I already have.”

Tony’s heart stutters in his chest. “What? I’m—” he drops his hand onto Steve’s. “How can you tell?”

Steve’s nose drags up the column of Tony’s neck, and he can’t fight back the whimper as Steve’s tongue drags over his earlobe. “I can smell it on you.”

“But…” Tony trails off, desperately trying to think through the haze of lust whiting out his brain. _Pregnant._ The word feels foreign in his mind, too set on human gender roles and biology to easily accept the declaration. _How_ is that possible? He’s not _just_ a lycan now.

“Is it too fast?” Steve gives Tony an assessing look. “When you said you hadn’t thought about a family, does that mean you… you don’t _want_ one?”

Tony opens his mouth, but there’s no words poised on his tongue, no sharp denials or sappy confirmations, just… nothing. Because he _hadn’t_ thought about being in this position, ever. Never thought he’d find someone he could even think about having a family with. And had certainly never imagined _this_ scenario. But now that he _is_ thinking about it, he feels oddly... calm. There’s no tightening in his chest, no panic rising up in his throat, choking him, there’s nothing but the vision of a blond little bundle wrapped in his arms, making his chest tighten for a different reason entirely.

“It’s just… a lot. I was just getting used to the boyfriend tag, and now, I’m going to add a…” Tony swallows roughly, unable to bring himself to say the word. It doesn’t feel wrong, far from it, but that word comes tangled up in a lot of emotions he can’t begin to sort through right now. “It’s… unexpected. I don’t have a good role model for being a father; I don’t really even remember mine, and Obie...“ Tony clears his throat. “But I guess he’s a wonderful example of how _not_ to be.” Tony knows he’s not perfect, knows he has flaws, but he couldn’t do worse than the monster that raised him—it’s a low bar to clear.

“You’re going to be a wonderful father,” Steve beams at Tony, caressing his belly with both hands.

“So are you, Stevie,” Buck murmurs.

Tony hums thoughtfully, Bucky’s words prickling in his mind. “So… can vampires, um, _breed_ too?”

Bucky makes a small sound Tony can’t place before he answers. “Females are sterile, and human males don’t have the same biology as lycans to allow it. So, truthfully, I don’t know.”

Now the thought of carrying a child inside his body has mellowed in Tony’s mind, he’s taken by the need to be full of both Steve and Bucky’s babies. Blood rushes to his cheeks and much, much lower down at the thought. He’s not sure it’s possible, but there’s no harm but lots of fun to be had in trying. “Maybe we should find out.” He rocks his hips back, grinding against the telltale swell of Bucky’s arousal.

“Oh, so _now_ you’re up for experimenting?” Steve chuckles, sliding his hand down to cup Tony’s straining erection through his pants.

“You have no idea,” Tony gasps before tugging Steve close and licking his way into his boyfriend’s mouth. It’s hot and wet and greedy, Tony feeding Steve whimpering moans as Bucky’s breath kisses his ear, whispering filthy promises for now, for the future, and Tony intends to hold him to all of them.

The afternoon sun isn’t as intense now as three hours before, starting it’s slow descent to the horizon, but the rays are still warm on Tony’s skin… skin that isn’t, as Bucky had predicted, igniting under the attention.

He can feel Bucky’s _“I told you so”_ stare from the house. His skin is prickling, feeling not unlike a fierce blush, but there’s no damage or pain.

“Verdict?” Steve asks, hovering in front of him.

Tony can feel the tension flowing off him in invisible waves, can see the way he’s poised, muscles coiled tight, ready to scoop Tony into his arms and rush him into the safety of the house. But he shakes his head. “All good. The sun still loves me.”

The anxiety leaves Steve in a whoosh of air before his lips pull up in a dazzling smile. “Of course it does.” He pulls Tony into a tight embrace, warm lips trailing kisses up his neck.

“C’mon, guys, not in front of the corpses,” Clint sighs, nudging Tony with an elbow. “And speaking of corpses, _Sheriff,_ what the hell are we doing with them?”

Tony turns his neck to face Clint but stays tucked in Steve’s embrace. “I think we should separate them, turned townsfolk can go to the clinic for loved ones to claim. They didn’t choose to get tangled up in this. Their families shouldn’t pay the price of never seeing them again.”

“And Rumlow and Obie’s lot?”

“Usually, we’d do a lunar burial as a sign of respect,” Steve says. “But given the circumstances—”

“They don’t deserve any,” Tony finishes gravely. “We burn them.” Steve’s arms tighten around him, and Tony doesn't fight it.

“Got it.” Clint follows Natasha, like he’s been doing all day, to the nearest body, and lifts it. He groans and stumbles, releasing his hold on the man’s shoulders, only Nat stepping forward and catching him stops him tumbling atop the corpse. “Shit, sorry!’

“What was that about?” Tony says, finally relinquishing his spot in Steve’s arms, wrapping his hand around a warm wrist instead and guiding him forward as he makes his way to his best friend.

“It’s… it’s nothing,” Clint mutters, eyes not lifting to Tony’s.

“Lying is not an attractive quality in a man, Barton,” Natasha hums, and Clint’s head snaps up.

“I’m not lying. It’s just not... well, I mean, _comparatively,_ it isn’t a big deal. In the grand scheme of things, of shape-shifters and blood drinkers and fights to the death, I thought it could keep.”

“What could keep?” Tony battles back a groan. His best friend is a fantastic person, funny, sharp, kind, and entertaining, but he’s also a master of understatements. Tony has a sense of foreboding that the _nothing_ is anything but.

Clint bends and rolls up his jeans’ right leg to the knee, giving Tony a perfect view of the twin set of curved puncture marks gouged into his calf.

 _“Fuck, Clint, you were bitten?_ Why the hell didn’t you say something? _Jesus._ ”

“Yeah, I got bit, big deal, you fucking died last night. This seemed pretty low on the importance pyramid.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry, there’s plenty of time until the next full moon. Bucky can try the transfusion on you. Given you’re not already a lycan, it might actually work.”

“No, I, uh…” Clint shrugs before turning to Nat, eyes dropping to the tight seam of her lips, and Tony notes her oddly absent opinion. “I think I’ll just let nature take its course.”

“You don’t know what—” Tony takes a step forward, but Steve catches his wrist and keeps him from taking another, and he twists back, brow furrowing.

“Tony,” Steve says quietly, “He’s made his decision.” He nods toward Nat, to bright red lips curving up in a hopeful smile, a mirror of Clint’s before they walk away.

Steve presses against Tony’s back, warm and reassuring, arms wrapping around him, fingers splaying out over his tummy. “It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it?”

"Yeah." Tony leans back against Steve, watching Nat and Clint now navigating between the bodies strewn across the yard like a gruesome hazard course, each dragging a corpse, somehow avoiding falling on their asses when they’ve got eyes only for each other. It’s impressive, really.

Steve stiffens behind him, and Tony’s body responds in kind, coiling tight, alert. He twists, planning on asking Steve what’s wrong, but finding the answer standing on the far side of the fence line before his lips part.

 _Lycans._ Tony doesn’t know how he knows; he just does. There’s six of them, but they all seem alone, not clustered together, all looking vaguely confused like they’re sleepwalking, not sure why they were drawn here, and Tony suddenly understands. He _recognizes_ that feeling. It’s the same one he had when he’d closed his eyes in the kitchen and opened them again to find himself on his knees in front of Obie.

“Steve? Are they—”

“It’s okay, they’re not here to hurt you,” Steve says calmly, his body relaxing just a fraction. “They’re here for me.”

“To hurt you?” Tony takes a step forward, putting his body in front of Steve's.

“No, it's okay, baby. They’re the betas that turned last night, but for some reason were able to resist Stane's commands. They're just drawn here, to me. I'd be able to feel it if they meant harm.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to give them what Stane would have never offered— _a choice_. They can join the pack or not, but they need to know what’s happened to them and know that they’re not going out of their mind, and not alone.” Steve raises his hand and motions the strangers over.

Except, now that Tony is really looking at them, he realizes that none of them actually _are_ strangers: there’s Scott Lang, owner of the town bar, Sam Wilson, a pilot who does supply runs for the local _less-than-super_ market, Darcy Lewis, who serves him coffee most mornings when he’s not having a supernatural-life crisis, Peter Parker, a nerdy, shy guy that by all accounts had never missed a single Dungeons & Dragons session at Lang’s since he’d arrived in town four months ago, Peter Quill, a harmless but hopeless case that spends most weekends in the station’s single cell sleeping off a drunk and disorderly, and Thor Odinson, the big, blond electrician that Tony had hooked up with in Lang’s bathroom… three times.

Tony blushes furiously and stares at his feet, deciding it’s probably best to leave that little snippet out of the introductions.

In fact, Tony is suddenly overcome with the desire to be anywhere but here during the wolfy orientation talk, and not _only_ because of Thor. Nat, the twins, and Clint had made quick work of the bodies, dividing them and piling Obie, Rumlow and the rest of would-be killers at the end of the yard—ready to be burned.

“I think I’m going to head into the house, call Bruce. I forgot to ask him about keeping the dead at the clinic and organizing the death notifications.”

Steve runs a hand through Tony’s hair, affectionately. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just…I don’t really want to stay for the bonfire. No fun without toasting marshmallows,” Tony says lightly.

Steve’s other hand tips Tony’s chin up before lowering his. He presses a sweet kiss to Tony’s lips. “You should ask Bucky about the time I cajoled him into eating a s’more,” Steve whispers against Tony’s mouth, lips curving up.

“I thought he couldn’t eat _real_ food?” Tony answers, breathlessly, head spinning from Steve’s closeness and absolute adoration that he didn’t try and press, tell Tony he’s overreacting, or assuring him that it’ll be okay.

The husky laugh follows Tony, as Steve plants his hands on Tony’s waist and twists him back to the house, patting him on the ass and nudging him forward. “He can, but you’ll understand why he doesn’t after you hear the story,” Steve calls after him. “And say hi to Bruce for me.”

“Hey, wait up,” Nat’s voice comes from behind him, but by the time Tony twists, she’s falling into step beside him. “Clint is staying for the _Lycanism for Dummies_ talk, but I wanna hear this vamp vs. marshmallow story. And, I need to collect my fifty bucks.”

“What fifty bucks?” Tony puzzles, climbing the stairs. He knows he could speed inside in a blink, but he likes the feeling of strolling into the house. He’s never been somewhere that feels like coming home until now, and the warm feeling it unfurls inside him each time makes him feel like he’d swallowed sunlight… in a good way.

“The bet I made with Blood Boy.”

“You mean the bet I won?” Bucky’s voice drifts over to them from the living room.

As if drawn by a magnet, Tony moves to the couch, drops onto it, and leans into Bucky, sighing happily. How a person—or persons—can feel like home is a mystery to him, but he’s okay with it. The knowing would probably ruin the magic.

“No, you said you were going to rip his head off. His head is clearly still attached. I know because I just put him in the incineration pile.” Nat crosses her arms over her chest, cocks a hip to the side, and smirks.

“No, the bet was the money goes to the one that _brings down_ Rumlow, and that was me,” Bucky counters, wrapping an arm around Tony and tucking him closer.

“I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree.”

“So, where does that leave the bet?” Tony asks, closing his eyes, just reveling in the feel of Bucky pressing against him.

“Obviously, I won, but I’m being gracious and not making your mosquito lose face in front of you and pay up.”

“I hope that pup takes after you more than Steve, Tony. Lycans can never admit when they’re wrong,” Bucky mutters, though there are no sharp edges to his words.

Nat’s face goes slack. “ _You’re pregnant?_ That’s amazing, Tony, congrats!” She looks wistfully at Tony’s belly before smiling. “You’re going to be a great dad, I know it. And, hey, after looking after Clint for so long, a baby will seem like a walk in the park. At least they can’t accidentally set their pants on fire while wearing them.”

Tony chuckles. “I’m surprised he told you about that; it was not one of his finer moments.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him while you have your hands full with the pup—and trying to wrangle its dad... dads?” She purses her lips, thoughtfully.

 _Dads._ Tony sighs happily against Bucky’s shoulder.

“And maybe Auntie Nat will be up for babysitting so we can wrangle Tony into some interesting positions ourselves,” Bucky murmurs huskily, grinding lazily against Tony.

“And that’s my cue to go and try and bleach that image out of my brain,” Nat laughs, spinning on her heel and heading for the door. “But this doesn’t mean anything, I still know I won,” she calls before slipping outside.

“You know she’s wrong, right?” Bucky chuckles.

“I think you both are,” Tony hums.

“Oh, yeah, how’s that?” Steve’s voice sounds from the doorway.

Tony doesn’t need to open his eyes to know Steve’s ambling lazily into the room. He can hear the soft footfalls, smell the salty beads clinging to heated skin, and feel how the air turns thick and heavy before Steve reaches down to run a hand through his hair. And, Tony knows Steve and Bucky can both smell his own leaking response, just as he can hear Steve’s pulse quicken and feel Bucky’s arousal pressing into him. They’re entirely in tune with each other, perfectly synchronized.

“Because clearly, _I_ won,” Tony says simply.

“You took down Rumlow?”

“Pfft, Rumlow-schrumlow. I’m talking a much bigger picture here, Steve, I’m talking about _life._ I won at life so spectacularly that I was awarded not one but _two_ top-shelf prizes and a DIY take-home pack,” he says, resting his free hand on his belly.

“So, would now be a good time to ask you, ask you both, to move in with me out here?” Steve asks, sounding suddenly shy.

Tony opens his eyes, fixing them on Steve’s hopeful blue-gold gaze and smiles. “Well, after everything, I’d just assumed…” he winks, throwing Steve’s words back at him.

“I don't know, Stevie. You’re going to need to put in some UV coating on your windows, maybe get a bigger bed, do something about the water pressure in your show—”

Steve lunges forward, swallowing down the rest of Bucky’s words and drawing out a long, low moan instead.

Tony’s heart swells watching them—they’re his. They’re so beautiful and incredible and _they’re his_. He loves them, and _they_ love _him._ It’s a heady thought, one that he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to. He knows it’s a consequence of living his whole life starved of affection, questioning his worth and ability to be loved, and knows they're shackles he won’t break easily. But in a small way, he’s secretly glad for it. It makes the revelation so much more wondrous, new, and _immense_.

A warm hand curves over Tony's cheek, bringing his face down, guiding his lips to Bucky's as Steve sucks at the hinge of his jaw. He surrenders to the sensations blooming inside him, knowing he's exactly where he's supposed to be, where he _belongs._  
  
Tony’s last coherent thought before strong arms are wrapping around him, lifting him, and carrying him to the bed, is that if _this_ is the universe's apology for all the shit cards he'd been dealt in his life, he'll accept it. A few years pain is a small price to pay for a forever filled with lust and laughter and love. He's found his missing pieces, found _home._ And whatever path fate has in store for him next, he knows everything is going to be okay because he won't be walking it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. This is it. We've come to the end. Originally I had planned an epilogue, cutting to a year later, but I felt like I (hopefully) tucked all loose ends in, and wrapped the ends up in a pretty bow, so the extra chapter felt superfluous. It was just going to be porn since everything else had been covered, so... I'm sorry about dangling sex in front of you and then yanking it back, but it felt so... extra. (But you don't mind, you were here for the plot, not porn, right? ;))
> 
> ii. Thank you to everyone who came along for the ride. I really hope you enjoyed it! Thank you for leaving me comments and kudos and poking at the plot bunnies in my mind, and never-ending thanks to Ferret and Ash for throwing eyes over certain parts of it for me, and HT for making me the most incredible art. <3 You are all so amazing and I can say in complete and total honesty that I wouldn't have finished this story without all of you, so, <3<3<3


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